False Step Read online

  In other words, Are you going to feed me now she’s gone?

  Bea said, ‘You’d better find someone else to look after you, or you’re for the chop.’

  Still shaken, she found her car keys, used the remote to unlock the doors and started the engine. There was a chill wind blowing, so she put the heater on. Two black ears and two large eyes appeared over the window. The cat was taking her at her word.

  ‘Get in, then,’ said Bea, opening the door. The cat obliged, curling up in the foot well on the passenger side.

  I suppose, if we never get any money for the work we’ve done, we can console ourselves with the cat.

  The engine was playing up. Bother. More expense. When she stopped at the traffic lights, the noise of the engine grew louder. Whatever was wrong with it?

  She laughed. It wasn’t the engine. It was the cat, purring.

  As she stepped over the carpet into the hall proper, Bea wondered why she’d always thought of hell as freezing cold and quiet. Hell wasn’t like that, she thought. Hell was people shouting, drills grinding, hammers banging and a tranny blasting out the latest rap. Hell was dust and disaster.

  She very nearly backed out of the house, got into her car, and drove away. Only, she couldn’t do that for the cat had swayed over the carpet and disappeared into the kitchen. How did he know where the kitchen was?

  Ah, Maggie had been cooking. Apart from the delicious smell of bacon, Bea could tell that Maggie was in because the radio was on in the kitchen, and the sound was at odds with the music – to call it by a polite name – which was coming up from the basement.

  ‘Hey, there, missus!’ The foreman that she’d spoken to yesterday hove into sight, red in the face from anger or exertion. ‘Can I have a word?’

  She followed him down the stairs, noting that the dust sheet was once again hitched up and not doing its job. Piers was nowhere to be seen, but he’d apparently been in earlier and upset the whole workforce, who were now determined to go on strike or botch it or something, because … at this point the plumber and the carpenter joined in, all speaking at once.

  Apparently the foreman objected to Piers saying that something or other had been done with the wrong gauge of pipe. And the electrician said … and the plumber disagreed, and they were both going to walk off the job and not return till they’d been paid something on account. And, and, and.

  Bea closed her eyes, mentally, to the mess around her, and calmed them all down, one by one. She knew little enough about gauges of piping and where the electrics ought to run, but she knew someone who did. She promised to send Maggie down to sort it all out, and went upstairs to look for her assistant.

  The cat was ahead of her, sitting on the kitchen table between two large workmen … a different set from the ones she’d just dealt with down below, and different again from the ones she’d seen the previous day. The cat was turning his head from one man to the other, blinking enormous yellow eyes. Maggie was pouring out mugs of tea for the men, while talking on her mobile phone.

  ‘Maggie, you’re needed downstairs,’ said Bea.

  ‘One minute.’ Maggie said, ‘Ta-ra,’ to whoever she was on the phone to, and switched it off. ‘Who’s the little stranger, then, and how did it get in? Take it off the table, someone. Food preparation and cats don’t mix.’

  The cat raised one paw in tentative fashion, and the larger of the two workmen teased out a piece of bacon from his butty, and handed it over. The cat took it, delicately, and it disappeared. He lifted his paw, indicating he would like some more. He was charm incarnate. Bea’s heart sank. Did she really want to take on a cat? No, and no. What’s more, she agreed with Maggie that animals should never be allowed on work surfaces.

  The larger of the two men turned a moon face to Bea. ‘Is he yours, missus? What’s his name?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s been thrown out of house and home, so I’ll have to find someone to take him in.’

  The large man picked the cat up and ran capable hands through the long fur till he located a name tag on a tatty, chewed up collar. ‘Winston. Neutered. He’s a bit of all right, isn’t he? Hey, Winston? How’re you doing? Like it here, do you?’

  The cat licked the man’s fingers. He laughed, set the animal down on the table, and said, ‘Well, back to work. We got the tiles, missus. Did you see them? All right by you?’ Maggie picked the cat up and put it down on the floor, clearing the work surface with one efficient movement. ‘I’ll be down in a sec, right?’

  The two men disappeared, well fed and watered. Maggie wrung out her cloth. ‘I don’t mind cats, but not on the table. Oh, the tiles are not the ones you picked but they’re OK, I think you’ll like them. I’m going to have to make the plumber replace that bit of piping, Mr Piers was quite right, it’s the wrong gauge, and the electrician’s mate cut his hand quite badly this morning and has had to go to hospital, but I don’t think there’s much else. Mr Piers said he’d be back later if he could, but not to count on it.’

  ‘The job you’re doing down the road …?’

  ‘I popped in there this morning, checked it out, no problems today, and I don’t have to go back till tomorrow afternoon. Just as well; this lot need someone to hold their hands even to go to the lavvy.’ Maggie had been crying recently, and even now was turning away so that Bea shouldn’t see her face properly.

  ‘Maggie, if something’s bothering you—’

  ‘Nothing’s bothering me.’ She was lying, but what could Bea do about it?

  Maggie whisked herself away, and Bea heard her arguing with the foreman downstairs. Bea switched off the radio. It reduced the noise level, somewhat.

  Where could she go for a bit of a think? The sitting room was under another film of dust, but luckily the sheets seemed to be keeping the furniture reasonably clean. No Max. Goodie.

  Miss Brook was working in Bea’s bedroom, of course. She was on the phone, dealing with a query in her usual efficient manner. Bea ascertained in sign language that Miss Brook did not need her to sort out any queries for the time being.

  Oliver was beavering away in the guest room. There was no sign of Max, and his things had been neatly put in piles on the bed. Presumably Maggie had been in there, too, since Oliver – despite chivvying from Maggie – still didn’t understand the principle of putting once-worn clothes away.

  ‘All right?’ Bea enquired of the back of Oliver’s head. He nodded, without turning his eyes from his screen.

  Bea felt a sudden chill sweep across her shoulders. It wasn’t that the window had been pushed up an inch or so. She didn’t know what it was. Ah, was it that Oliver usually turned to speak to her when she intruded on his territory, and this time he hadn’t done so? Something had upset Oliver?

  ‘No problems,’ he said, still not turning round. ‘The morning post’s in with Miss Brook. Nothing we can’t handle between us. Maggie’s on about having the floorboards stripped and polished. I think maybe she’s right. It’s a bit dark down there and lighter floors would make sense. Anyway, there’s been no more calls about the car, and everything in the garden’s lovely.’

  He didn’t sound as if he thought it were lovely. He sounded … she hesitated … angry?

  He said, ‘I can cope.’

  Now what did he mean by that? Something had upset him, but he could cope with whatever it was? A communication from his estranged father, perhaps? A copy of his birth certificate which proved he was – or was not – his adopted mother’s child?

  The back of his neck insisted that he wanted to be left alone, so Bea left, closing the door behind her.

  What next? If she went up to the top floor, there would be nowhere she could sit and think, since that was where Oliver and Maggie had their rooms.

  It wasn’t fine enough to sit out in the garden.

  Well, she could go to visit the second Mrs Kent, Damaris’s mother. Perhaps she would like to take the cat?

  Bea got the phone number from her paperwork, and rang. Yes, Gail was at home and would give
her a few minutes. Bea thought of taking the cat with her, but Winston was nowhere to be seen.

  How could he have vanished? The doors from the kitchen and living room were firmly shut and locked at the moment. Perhaps the cat had sneaked out when one of the workmen had gone out to fetch a tool or the tiles or whatever from their van? Bea shrugged. The noise was giving her a headache. There was nothing for her to do that Oliver and Miss Brook and Maggie couldn’t do better, so she might just as well make herself scarce.

  Gail lived in a flat in a quiet road running parallel to a busy High Street in West London. Everything about the place said that this was a well-maintained block for residents who were decorously behaved and of sufficient means. The landscaping was harmonious, the paintwork fresh, the entrance hall attractively furnished and sparklingly clean.

  Altogether a far cry from the depressed looking Frasier residence.

  Bea announced herself on the speakerphone and was let in. The lift was in working order, and purred as it took its occupant to the top floor. Gail was waiting for her there, and ushered her into a light and airy sitting room.

  Bea saw that Mr Frasier’s comment about Gail had been wrong; the woman had suffered, was suffering from her daughter’s death. She was becomingly dressed in a fine wool fawn trouser suit, her hair and make-up had been carefully done, but she looked haggard. The grey marks under her eyes were more pronounced, and she seemed to have lost weight. At least her hands were not trembling today.

  Bea had forgotten that the last time she had met Gail, Bea had been dressed ‘down’ to play a part. Today Bea was wearing a sage-green skirt and paler-green silk shirt, with a tan leather jacket over all. Her hair was in its usual smooth style, with the fringe brushed sideways across her forehead, and her make-up – though discreet – made the most of her fine eyes and good skin. She’d even struggled into her best tan boots. Today Bea looked what she was; a successful business woman.

  Gail narrowed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, but who are you, exactly?’

  Bea gave her one of the agency cards. ‘I must apologize. Mrs Frasier made certain assumptions and perhaps foolishly, I went along with what she expected to see …’ Bea explained how she’d been drawn into the business. ‘Mrs Frasier told us she wanted the agency to prepare an inventory of the house and to take care of any phone calls there might be about selling Mr Kent’s car. We finished the inventory but needed more instructions from her when we heard … I am so sorry. Coming so soon after the other …’

  Gail cut Bea off with a wave of her hand. ‘My daughter and I were not that close.’

  ‘A horrible thing to happen, though.’

  Gail inclined her head. She started to speak, then stopped herself. ‘You wanted to see me?’

  ‘You asked if I could find out when and where Matthew’s funeral would take place. I left a message on the phone for you. Did you get it?’

  Gail inclined her head again. ‘Thank you. It appears I have to arrange for my daughter’s funeral as well. My son-in-law is not … not well able to …’

  ‘Understood. I visited him this morning. I don’t want to add to your problems, but have you any idea what ought to be done about the cat, Winston? Mr Frasier said he would have him put down, but I wondered if you …’ She looked around at the impeccable modern furniture, and guessed what the answer would be.

  ‘I’m sorry, no. I’m on the top floor here, as you see, and I’ve never particularly cared for cats. Matthew gave him to Damaris as a kitten. I think she loved that cat far more than she ever loved me.’ Gail closed her eyes for a moment. She was very pale under the make-up. ‘What an epitaph for a daughter! I think I must still be in shock.’

  Bea looked around. ‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?’

  Gail sighed, and let herself down on to a modernistic chair which for all its angles, seemed comfortable enough. ‘Do take a seat. No, I don’t want any tea. I didn’t sleep much last night. I had to confirm that it was Damaris at the …’ She put the back of her hand to her forehead. ‘Stupid of me.’ She started to laugh, and stopped herself. ‘No hysterics. No regrets. No looking back.’

  Bea said, ‘It’s the “might have been” that does it. You think, if only …’

  ‘Yes. If only. Not that it would have made any difference to my relationship with Damaris. She was always a cold fish. Rejected me from the word go. I did love her, you know. Or rather, I loved her as much as she would let me. She loved Matthew more than she loved me, and I think she loved that cat more than she loved either of us.’ She stopped, putting the back of her hand to her mouth, and biting on it.

  ‘Matthew was another “might have been”?’

  A shrug. ‘There have been other men in my life. I might have married again, if I’d wanted to, but Matthew was different. If only I hadn’t been so set on climbing the career ladder. If only he’d been able to cut down his work load. But there … crying over spilt milk … stupid, stupid! I did love him, you know.’

  Bea nodded. She’d worked that out already.

  Gail got up, jerkily. ‘Care for a drink?’

  Bea shook her head. ‘I’m driving. Forgive me, but when did you last eat?’

  Gail began to laugh and this time didn’t stop. She leaned over the back of an immaculate white leather settee, until her hair touched its cushions. She retched, and laughed, and coughed. And eventually stopped. She stood upright and smoothed back her hair. Tears smudged her mascara. ‘Eat something? I’ve been throwing up ever since I heard.’

  ‘If you can’t eat anything, you must drink. Water? Tea?’

  Gail reached for her handbag. ‘I suppose I should try. I fancy I could keep down a basic spaghetti, and perhaps a glass of red wine. There’s an Italian restaurant nearby. Come with me? My treat. Take my mind off things.’

  The restaurant was small but not too noisy. The food was plentiful and what Piers would have termed ‘rustic’. Basic, properly cooked, no frills. The wine was plonk but Bea had a glass, as did Gail.

  Bea was hungry and did justice to her cannelloni, but Gail picked at her plate. They ate in silence, but over the coffee Bea asked if Gail had anyone who could stay with her for a while.

  Gail shook back her hair. ‘I don’t have anyone really close since my best friend died of cancer last year. I don’t know you from Adam, but I need to talk to someone and it might as well be you. And then I’ll shut up for good. I’ve never seen the point of whining about the bad choices we make in life.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Bea, who had made a bad choice when she married Piers, all those years ago. A bad choice at eighteen can affect your whole life.

  ‘You think I’m a hard case, grieving more for the might-have-been with Matthew than for my daughter, but you see, she took after her father, who was a cold-eyed, manipulative bastard. I was twenty when I married him, stars in my eyes. My parents wanted me to wait, said I was too young, still doing my teacher training. I didn’t listen, we had a big wedding, and then on the honeymoon …’

  She looked down at her hands, adjusted the gold band she wore on the ring finger of her right hand. ‘I got pregnant. He was horrified. It was too soon, he was too young, he wanted me to have an abortion. I refused so he beat me up. Oh, he promised never to do it again. We agreed to put the “incident” behind us, but I realized he wasn’t what I’d thought him, that I’d made a terrible mistake. But I’d made my vows in church. I stayed.

  ‘He expected me to produce a son, of course, so Damaris was a disappointment. He said that next time I’d surely be able to do the job properly and give him a son, but I never conceived again. He started to hit me again when Damaris was five. Not much. Not often. Damaris adored him, and each time he promised … but of course he didn’t keep his promises. Only, when Damaris was seven, she ruined his favourite jacket with some indelible ink. It was an accident, but he backhanded her across the room.

  ‘When he went off to work next morning I packed a rucksack with Damaris’s toys and one suitcase, and went to a women’s
refuge. I was too afraid of him to stand my ground and tell him to get out. He divorced me for desertion, I rented a one bedroom flat, started all over again. Damaris hated me for taking her from her nice room and lovely toys and making her live in a flat over a shop. She’d heard him say often enough that everything was always my fault, that I wasn’t a lovable person and she believed it.’

  ‘You got maintenance?’

  ‘A little for Damaris. I was only too happy to make a clean break, though I’d have preferred it if he’d kept in touch with Damaris. He chose not to. She wasn’t an easy child. Just like her father, she’d work herself into a temper and lash out at anyone who got in her way. I loved teaching and was good at it. Things gradually improved and we’d moved into a housing association flat when I met Matthew and … pause for laughter … we fell in love, just like teenagers. Damaris was twelve and prickly, but he paid for her to go to a private school. She really liked that.’

  ‘What went wrong?’

  Gail looked into space. ‘For a while it was wonderful. I’d never known anyone like Matthew, and Damaris loved having a daddy again. She’s a mercenary little being, you know. Was a mercenary little being. She loved Matthew’s house, his money, everything that he could provide for her. And he? He didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He offered her unconditional love. He’d not had any children by his first wife and Damaris was a plus factor for him in our marriage.

  ‘He adopted her formally, took out an insurance policy for her. She’d cuddle up to him on his big chair, giggle at his jokes, and coax him to give her … whatever it was she’d set her heart on. He spoilt her. She took advantage of his good nature, of course. She wasn’t an academic; no patience. “So what?” he’d say. “Haven’t I enough for the three of us?” I think perhaps I was jealous of the way she could get round him. She said I was, anyway. She said …’ Gail bit her lip and looked away.

  ‘She said Matthew had really only married me because he wanted a daughter. She said no one could really love me, because I wasn’t lovable. Perhaps I wasn’t … do you think we could have a brandy or something?’