False Pretences Read online

  ‘I could hear him tossing around every time I woke. His bed creaks.’

  Bea nodded. The girl’s eyes were deeply shadowed, but she’d shown her quality by getting up and getting going. Maggie wasn’t eighteen any more. Maggie was five years older than Oliver and had learned a thing or two about getting through the hot spots of life. She didn’t mention Zander.

  Bea swallowed sugary tea and tried not to make a face at it. ‘Mr Cambridge is going to get Zander a good solicitor. He wants me to think myself into Honoria’s mind, find out what she’ll do next.’

  ‘Yuk,’ said Maggie and went away to start breakfast. ‘Sooner you than me.’

  Bea got herself ready for the day while making lists in her mind as to what needed doing first, second and third. And if this or that were to happen, what she might do about it.

  Oliver didn’t appear at breakfast. The house seemed unusually quiet. Bea thought they were waiting for something to happen. But what could happen now?

  Maggie was listless but agreed to resume her normal activities. The electrician must be appeased for having been stood up the day before, and she had to chase up some kitchen units which ought to have been delivered and hadn’t. Unsmiling, Maggie took some breakfast up to Oliver, and she reported to Bea that he was awake but pretending to be asleep when she went in.

  ‘I’ll deal with him in a minute,’ said Bea.

  Maggie picked up her tote bag and hesitated. She didn’t put her anxiety into words, but Bea did it for her. ‘You’re worried about Zander. Yes, I am, too. A spot of prayer might help?’

  Maggie nodded, squared her shoulders, and went out to do battle with the world.

  Bea finished making an enormous shopping list for food. The phones were quiet. Hadn’t CJ promised to ring? Oh well; promises, promises. Miss Brook rang to say she was going to be in a little late as she’d had a poor night but was definitely on the mend . . . which Bea took leave to doubt. But if Miss Brook was coming in, that would free her up for other things. Though not, of course, to look into Honoria’s mind.

  Cynthia arrived on the dot, and Bea spent a good hour with her, going through the systems. Cynthia was just a trifle too bright and breezy for Bea, but a godsend in view of the staff situation.

  At eleven Bea made some strong coffee and took it upstairs to Oliver, who was still pretending to be asleep. The blinds were still drawn against the daylight, and she twitched them up.

  ‘Rise and shine, my lad. We’ve got work to do. Because if we don’t put our minds to it, Zander goes to prison.’

  Oliver burrowed under the pillow.

  She clinked a spoon against his mug. ‘Strong coffee. A cold shower. Shave and dress. Ten minutes. Downstairs in my office, in your right mind and with that all-important memory stick in your hand.’

  ‘Dunno what you mean. What memory stick?’

  ‘Ten minutes,’ she said. ‘Or I empty a bucket of cold water into your bed.’

  ‘I’m exhausted.’

  ‘So am I. You did well yesterday, and of course it tired you out. But you’ll live. Ten minutes, right?’

  She left him to it and went down to greet Miss Brook, who’d just arrived and was eyeing Cynthia rather as one might a slug found in one’s lettuce. Soothing one and encouraging the other, Bea left them to work out how best to coexist and was rewarded by hearing Miss Brook graciously offering Cynthia a biscuit from her own personal tin of delicacies from Harrods.

  Fifteen minutes after she’d left Oliver, he was in her office, showered, shaved, dressed and with a scowl on his face fit to shatter glass.

  ‘To work,’ she said. ‘Between you and me and that illicit memory stick, we ought to be able to trace the history of Denzil’s career and marriage. Mr Cambridge wants us to get inside Honoria’s mind, try to work out what drives her, and above all, what she’s going to do next.’

  A shrug, shoulders to ear. A grunt. ‘What illicit memory stick?’

  ‘You were asked to download files from Denzil’s computer on to memory sticks for Mr Cambridge and Zander to work on. You were then told to look at the first twenty files, which you did. Knowing you, you also downloaded everything else in sight: the history files, the photograph albums, everything down to what music he used to play. So transfer the files from the memory stick to your own computer and search for something we can use. Anything.’

  ‘I hadn’t time to copy everything on to my own memory stick, but there was an icon I didn’t recognize, and I did take a note of it because it’s something I haven’t come across before.’

  ‘So; investigate.’

  As he left, Bea started pacing.

  Honoria. Lady Honoria. A title which was possibly not hers by right?

  Forty plus when she married Denzil? What had she been doing before that? Had she had any business experience? Was she computer literate?

  What could she have seen in Denzil the Dangerous? To Bea’s mind, he was a grubby-minded little so and so, fondling teenage girls, storing mild porn on his computer, playing games with computer files to hide information from a casual eye, taking rake-offs from Corcorans. A racist.

  His marriage might just have been a screen behind which he could approach young girls.

  Other people might have seen a different side to him. He’d had an excellent start in life as a godson of Lord Murchison with a public school education. He’d done a good job for the Trust for some years and been promoted for it. He’d known how to manipulate the other directors when discovered. He had been, presumably, presentable. He’d had a title of sorts. He had that indefinable asset: a good background.

  He’d died young, of a heart attack. Funeral . . . when? Soon? Would all the directors attend, in spite of what they’d discovered about him? Probably, yes. There’d be a three-line whip from Tommy, who wanted everything kept under wraps.

  Why had Honoria married Denzil?

  Because she could dominate him, wear the trousers, dictate the direction of events? She’d been married before – or had Bea imagined that piece of gossip?

  What did Honoria want out of life? Two things, perhaps: to restore the family home, and a husband. If she’d ever loved Denzil, that love couldn’t have lasted, given his propensity for young girls. Equally, he probably hadn’t loved her. Maybe it had been a marriage of convenience, each accepting of the other’s failings, two oddities facing the world together?

  What would she have got out of it? Status.

  Honoria needed money for the house. Hence the fraud. Denzil’s position was not salaried, but he was able to tap into the resources of the Trust. So she’d devised the scam, and he’d carried it out. Yes, that felt right.

  So . . . come the dawn and Zander’s enquiring mind uncovered the leak in the Trust accounts, forestalling Tommy’s slower march of justice. Then Denzil died, and Honoria blackmailed the Trust into accepting her as Denzil’s replacement. So far, so good. She must have been furious that a lowly employee had disrupted their plans.

  Bea thought back to what she knew and had observed of Honoria and concluded that she was not only a snob but also – like Denzil but even more so – a racist. Hence she’d tried first of all to bully Zander into submission when he’d visited her in the country, and then endeavoured to frame him for theft of the valuable statuette.

  Both attempts to discredit Zander had failed, which must have stoked her fires of vengeance against him.

  Her position at the Trust must have seemed safe enough, until the bank statements had turned up proving that Denzil had been taking backhanders. Did Honoria know who found them? Better ask Tommy what she’d been told. She may have assumed it was Zander, fuelling her hatred of him even further.

  Guesswork! Bea scolded herself.

  Yes, but nothing else explains why she should have taken such a terrible revenge on Zander.

  If it was her, said Bea.

  You know it was her. It was a woman who phoned Zander at his office, inviting him to visit her in the suburbs that evening. Oh yes, it must have been h
er. Believing that she’d sent him on a wild goose chase, she went to his digs and killed Mrs Perrot.

  Why would she need to kill Mrs Perrot? Because . . . because she wanted to punish Zander in some way, probably by framing him for theft. And then, on finding herself confronted with an elderly lady, realized she could also frame Zander for murder. It was neat; Bea had to admit it was neat. And it had worked up to a point: the point at which CJ had become involved. Bea thought it was odds-on that CJ would clear Zander, somehow or other.

  So would Honoria now rest on her laurels? Unlikely. She had struck Bea as being a particularly single-minded individual. It would of course be sensible of her now to turn her mind to pastures new . . . but suppose she still burned to revenge herself on someone, anyone, who had thwarted her in the past? Remember, she’d lost her only means of support.

  Well, she’d dealt with Zander. Who else would she wish to vent her displeasure on?

  Mm. The previous office manageress, or the youthful niece who had attracted Denzil’s attention? Can’t quite see why, but . . . maybe. A little far-fetched, but Honoria might have resented a young girl’s attempt to supplant her. If so, whatever had she thought about Kylie from the pub?

  Or she might very well be angry with Bea and CJ, who’d helped Tommy find the proof of Denzil’s fraudulent doings.

  What? What nonsense! Bea laughed aloud. How ridiculous. Of course not.

  Oliver frowned his way back into her office. ‘I think I’ve found something.’

  Late Wednesday evening

  There was nothing on the news about Sandy’s death. She munched her way through some nuts, couldn’t be bothered to cook. The washing machine whirred in the scullery. She’d cleaned her gun already and locked it away.

  Phone calls from Trimmingham kept her up to date. She couldn’t understand how the office boy had got off the hook for the murder, but the theft was enough to send him to jail. A brilliant stroke of hers, hiding the jewellery among his belongings. Done on the spur of the moment, but none the worse for that.

  Tommy Murchison was back in hospital. Good. With him out of the way, the other directors hadn’t the guts to withstand her. She’d be back at the Trust in no time at all, because they couldn’t prove she’d done anything wrong, could they?

  Trimmingham said Tommy had been taking advice from that pale widow, Dean or Abbot, some name like that. Said it was she who’d found the bank statements and had got Zander cleared of the murder charge. The woman had denied that Zander was her toy boy, though everyone could see he was just that.

  How dare she! Didn’t she realize who she was up against? She needed to be taught a lesson, and Honoria was just the person to do it.

  There was someone else who needed to be taught a lesson now that Sandy was out of the picture, wasn’t there? That Della Lawrence, conspiring to have her niece replace Honoria in Denzil’s bed.

  Honoria smiled, pushing the last of the cashew nuts into her mouth. Why not pay her a visit? There wasn’t much left to do for the funeral. She’d ordered some sandwiches from the pub and a couple of bottles of sherry for the funeral meats; nothing extravagant. There wouldn’t be many people there. The board of directors, a few yokels, some of his so-called friends from the pub. No need to go to any great trouble for them.

  And revenge was sweet.

  TWELVE

  Thursday noon

  Bea was on her way to Oliver’s office before he’d finished speaking. ‘I knew you could do it. So what have you got?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. You know I said there was an icon I didn’t recognize. Well, it was for a program I haven’t used before. Steganography.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s for hiding data within pictures. The data might be text, or it might be another picture. So you could have a picture hidden within another. I looked the icon up, and now I’m downloading it from the Internet. The only thing is, I don’t know which of his images he’s actually hidden something in. I mean, there’s dozens. Unless you can think of a short cut, I’m going to have to run the program on every single bare-assed picture on his computer to see if there’s another message hidden inside it. It’s going to take ages.’

  ‘Would your guru be able to help? Presumably he saw the icon, too.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Which reminds me that he was supposed to ring me this morning, and he hasn’t.’

  Prompt on cue, the front doorbell rang. And it was him, looking greyer and less substantial than before.

  ‘I do apologize for not having rung. I hope you can spare me a few minutes now?’

  ‘Of course. Come into the sitting room. Coffee?’

  ‘No need. What I’ve got to say is . . . there’s no good news. Tommy’s back in hospital. The pain got too much even for him. He summoned me to his bedside and gave me power of attorney to deal with his affairs at the Trust. I arrived at the Kensington headquarters to find an extraordinary board meeting taking place. And I do mean extraordinary. Convened by the major, but with Sir Cecil in the chair. In short order they carried two motions: one, that Zander had forfeited his job by being arrested for theft; and two, that Honoria should be reinstated in her husband’s place on the board of directors, since nothing can be proved against her.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Both motions carried unanimously, though the major did express some qualms to me afterwards, saying that he didn’t think Tommy would be a happy bunny to hear what they’d done. Honoria will officially take her seat on the board the day after the funeral.’

  ‘But . . .!’

  ‘Trimmingham declares her innocent of all charges and willing to work hard to put right the damage her husband has done. And that’s that. I haven’t told Tommy yet. He’s not fit to hear any bad news.’

  ‘No, I can understand that, but . . . where does this leave Zander? In jail. Yet we know he didn’t murder his landlady, and I’d stake my life on his not having stolen her jewellery.’

  ‘We can clear him of the murder; true. But the thefts . . . I don’t know. I’ve got a good man working on it, but it wouldn’t be the first time an innocent man’s been fitted up for theft. That’s out of our hands now. Honoria’s another matter. I must warn you that, according to the major, she knows it was you who found the evidence of her husband’s fraud. She declares there’s a perfectly simple explanation for the monies that went into their joint bank accounts, and she’s holding us personally responsible for his early death.’

  Bea felt a cold tingle down her backbone. ‘You asked me to put myself into her head, and it’s given me reason to fear her. What about you?’

  He washed his face with both hands. He evidently wasn’t going to admit to fear. He tried out for a laugh. ‘I fear that spineless board will let her get away with murder.’

  ‘If it hasn’t already,’ said Bea, thinking that she could do with some caffeine, even if he didn’t need any. ‘Come into the kitchen. I need some coffee.’

  He followed and watched while she put their newly acquired coffee machine to work. It was something Oliver had bought for her, and needed his sort of brain to operate, but she thought she’d more or less mastered it. ‘It seems to me – correct me if I’m wrong – that Honoria is a very angry and vindictive woman. What she’s done to Zander is appalling, but I’m wondering how many more grudges she wants to satisfy.’

  ‘You. Me. Perhaps Tommy?’

  ‘I was thinking more of Corcoran. A partner in crime for her husband. What is he to her?’

  He pinched his nose between his finger and thumb. ‘You think it might be worth asking him about her? I suppose he may be mourning the loss of his contracts with the Trust. Yes, it’s worth a try. Perhaps we can get him to talk, once he accepts that no one’s going to sue.’

  ‘Then there’s the question of the ex-office manager. Do you remember – I’m not sure if you were there when Zander told us? I can hardly remember which day of the week it is but it might be relevant – anyway, Zander told us she’d phoned him at work the day of Mrs
Perrot’s murder and asked him to call on her that evening, only of course he couldn’t. Perhaps she had something to say . . .? It’s a bit of a long shot.’

  ‘Della something. Yes, I think you did mention it, but what with everything else that’s been happening . . . I’ll check. Any other ideas?’

  ‘One more. Oliver spotted a strange icon on Denzil’s desktop. He thinks it’s something to do with hiding text or an image inside another picture.’

  ‘Hm, I noticed that too, but there’s quite a few pictures on the computer, and so far I haven’t spotted anything helpful. Perhaps Denzil downloaded the programme and didn’t actually get round to using it. So unless you can come up with a clue . . .?’

  Bea snapped. ‘If you think I’ve got nothing better to do!’

  ‘Understood.’

  Silence. She poured out coffee for them both. He took his black, and so did she. Winston the cat plopped in through the cat flap. Spotting another cat-lover, he twined round CJ’s legs and allowed himself to be lifted up to be stroked. Winking at CJ, and raising one paw in a begging position, Winston performed his usual trick of enchanting the beholder.

  CJ smiled and scratched behind Winston’s ears. ‘I wouldn’t have put you down as a cat person, Bea.’

  ‘Winston moved in on me. People do. Maggie did. And Oliver. And if Zander hadn’t been whisked off to jail last night, I suspect I’d be putting him up as well.’

  ‘Your husband only died last year. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Nobody moved in on me while he was alive. Not even the cat.’

  ‘Angels and ministers of grace, defend us.’

  Bea blinked. Had CJ really said that? Was he a Christian, too?

  CJ put Winston down and sighed. ‘Must go. Suppose we divide up the tasks? I’ll tackle Corcoran, if you chase up Della. What’s her second name? Zander would know. How can we find out? Ah. I know. Young Oliver copied everything from Denzil’s computer on to his own memory stick, didn’t he?’

  Bea tried not to blush. ‘I’m afraid so. I don’t think he’s got any morals at all when it comes to computers.’