False Alarm Page 17

  ‘Also, pinned up on a notice board were photos of various young men which he seems to have taken with a long-range lens. All young, some of them in school uniform. He said he was taking the pictures for a story he was writing, which I didn’t believe for one minute. His computer was on a screen saver. He tried to stop me, but I wanted to see what he’d got there and I found folders on a whole lot of people. I saw there was one marked “Camellia”, which I thought might be his way of disguising “Carmela”, and I was right. He’d snapped her as she’d let a number of different men out of her flat. Very clear photos of the men concerned. And one of them was—’

  ‘Sir Lucas. Of course. Anyone else you recognized?’

  ‘There’s a photo montage of executives on the wall in the foyer at Vicori House. I recognized one of Carmela’s visitors from that, though I can’t recall his name. The closest I can get to it is that he’s a vice president of one of the Vicori companies, third row down on the left on the board.’

  ‘So, on the basis of a photograph showing this man outside Carmela’s door, you assumed he was the traitor Sir Lucas was looking for? That he was using Harvey as a go-between, or perhaps trying to obtain information from Sir Lucas through Carmela? There might be another explanation, you know.’

  ‘Why else would he be taking those photographs?’

  Bea sighed. Oliver had not just jumped, but leaped to the wrong conclusion.

  Oliver said, ‘Harvey was burbling away about Carmela being a naughty girl, inviting me to laugh with him. I said I thought he’d been rather naughty, too, that I’d have to report him, and that he must know what the consequences were. He giggled and he said . . .’ Oliver washed his face with his hands again. ‘He said, “Oh yes, please!” and pinched my bottom.’

  Bea tried not to laugh. ‘Er, you’ve had advances made to you before now?’

  ‘Well, yes; once or twice. But I hadn’t seen this one coming. The caretaker was horrified, too. He started shouting at Harvey, saying he was a reptile and worse, and that Sir Lucas would deal with him and he was not to leave the apartment until further notice. Harvey took umbrage, said he didn’t believe what he was hearing, that he had to go out on important government business and that MI5 would be watching. The caretaker lifted Harvey’s keys which were on his hall table. Then he went into the kitchen and locked the back door, and took that bunch of keys, too. Apparently the bunch in the back door was Harvey’s spare set. He became hysterical, shouting that he had claustrophobia and that we’d no right to lock him in.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking straight. I thought it served him right. He tried to rush the caretaker and got thrown back across the settee. I started to laugh. It wasn’t till much later that I . . . Harvey really was frightened, you know. He was perspiring, and . . . flapping about in a way which I thought at the time was funny. But it wasn’t funny, really. Was it?’

  ‘Did he tell you what he does for a living? He writes teenage pulp fiction. He showed me a whole shelf full of his books; written under a pseudonym, of course. He also writes film reviews for one of the seedier tabloids. I saw his book of cuttings. He was due at a film premiere last night. I hope he made it. Of course he’s got a vivid imagination, and I’m told he slides in and out of reality, but that’s partly what makes him a success in his own field. Yes, he does yearn after young men which is sad, but I don’t think he goes any further than looking.’

  ‘Or pinching bottoms?’ Oliver flushed.

  Bea patted his hand. ‘I know. Unpleasant for you. Be happy you are young and handsome enough to attract attention.’

  Oliver couldn’t give up so easily. ‘What about the photos of Carmela and her “clients”, then? Was he going to blackmail them?’

  ‘He wouldn’t take pictures of older men for amusement, and blackmail is not his scene. I suspect Carmela asked him to take them.’ She sighed. ‘Listen, Oliver, there’s a lot you don’t know about the people in the flats. Some very odd things have been going on there for months, if not years. For instance, did you know that Carmela and the dark-haired girl on the ground floor have been subjected to some unpleasant experiences by someone living in the flats?’

  ‘Flat two? Evonne, spelled with a capital E. I met her yesterday when we were looking for the caretaker.’

  ‘Right. Evonne with an E. It started some weeks ago. At first it wasn’t too bad. Some call-girl cards were printed up with Carmela and Evonne’s landline telephone numbers on them and left in the tenants’ letter boxes.’

  ‘What?’ Half laughing, and half scandalized.

  ‘Later, those same cards were put into telephone boxes near the Underground Station. Both women received nuisance calls asking for Miss Whiplash or whatever. Both were ex-directory, by the way. Carmela dealt with this by taking out her landline and relying on her mobile. Evonne and her flatmate Connor didn’t know what to do. Evonne didn’t seem to understand the significance of the fact that their numbers were ex-directory, but I’m sure Carmela did. Her livelihood depends on her reputation for discretion. Did she complain of this harassment to Sir Lucas? No, I don’t think so. He wouldn’t want his relationship with her to become common knowledge. She needed protection, and across the hall from her was Harvey, a man who liked to peep and pry and take photos. Why not ask him to snap her clients as they came and went? She only works in the late afternoon and on certain days. She could give Harvey dates and times. If she had an unexpected or difficult caller, it would be helpful to have a photograph of him.

  ‘As it turned out, she didn’t need that insurance, for the troublemaker stepped up his campaign by putting out a call-girl card with Evonne’s address on it. Not her telephone number; her address. A punter duly called on her on Friday and was, of course, rebuffed. There was a ruckus which Carmela and I witnessed; the punter got the best of it and left. Carmela explained to me what had been happening over a cup of coffee, but on our way back I noticed something was wrong with the lift. We investigated and—’

  ‘You didn’t really see a body in the lift, did you?’ Half laughing. ‘I mean . . . not really?’

  ‘Yes, I did. It wasn’t a corpse but the unconscious body of Tariq on his earlier attempt to flee the nest. The caretaker was afraid that he had killed Tariq which was why he put the lift out of action, attacked me and destroyed my mobile. He wanted to make sure I didn’t ring the police till he’d alerted Sir Lucas to what had happened. Fortunately for him Tariq was only unconscious for a while and came to himself while I was being ministered to in Evonne’s flat. The caretaker took Tariq back up to his own place, Carmela kept her own counsel and the others hadn’t seen anything, so it was convenient for everyone to believe I’d been, well, mistaken.’

  ‘Which is where I came in,’ said Oliver, wincing, ‘and misread the situation.’

  ‘Easy to do.’ Bea was magnanimous.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Oliver frowned. ‘You said the first call-girl cards gave ex-directory telephone numbers, which means that someone knew them well enough to get access to their phone numbers? Someone in the flats?’

  ‘Who else? I’ve been looking for someone who might have had a grudge against those two women. Playing around with the idea, it seemed to me that if a man wasn’t getting enough sex, he might have tried it on with the other women in the flats. If he’d been rebuffed, he might have taken umbrage and got his own back by leaving call-girl type cards around with their telephone number or address on. Now you’ll laugh, but at first I thought Eliot McIntyre fitted the bill because his wife is probably too frail to have sex at the moment.’

  ‘That sounds right.’

  ‘Yes, but I honestly don’t think Eliot has eyes for anyone but his wife. Also, one of the Big Issue lads saw a businessman with ginger hair putting the call-girl cards into a local telephone box. Eliot is a businessman, but not a redhead. So, Oliver; have you come across a red-headed businessman in the flats?’

  He got out his notebook, and went through it, page by page. ‘Not the Professor, nor Tariq, not the Muslim. One of
Carmela’s clients?’

  He looked at Bea, and they both shook their heads. ‘No.’

  Bea said sweetly, ‘I’m sure she gives every satisfaction.’

  Oliver returned to his notes. ‘Not Eliot. Not Connor because he’s shaven-headed. What about flat number four, immediately above Evonne and Connor? Have you been in that one?’

  Bea tried to remember what she’d been told. ‘Yuppies? Three-piece suits, fold-up bicycles?’

  ‘That’s just the female of the species. She’s a ball-breaker, that one. I saw her when I was trying to find the caretaker. Six foot, black hair, dominatrix. Works in the fashion industry. She said her name is “Cyn” with a C. Short for Cynthia. I didn’t see her partner. Didn’t see any need to at that time.’

  Bea’s hand went to her mobile, and she pressed buttons. ‘Mrs Emerson? Lucy? So sorry to have troubled you, such a difficult weekend, I do hope you managed to sleep well after all the trouble we had yesterday . . . Yes, it was really upsetting, wasn’t it? I was wondering how poor Harvey was this morning. I know you keep an eye on him, you and Carrie . . . Oh, good. I’m so glad to hear it. I thought he’d bob up again, but you never know, and it’s always difficult getting a window repaired at the weekend. Has he been able to find someone who lives in the flats and who might be able to . . .’

  The phone quacked, and Bea rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, it must be difficult without a caretaker, and the Professor is hardly . . . No; I agree with you. And I’m not sure that young Connor . . . Exactly; not the handyman type. And Mr McIntyre is so preoccupied up with his wife’s health. It doesn’t sound as if there is anyone else who . . . You plan to ask the man in flat four? I don’t think I’ve met him, have I? What’s he called?’ She scribbled down a name. ‘Isn’t he the big Welshman who . . . I’ve got him mixed up with someone else, have I? He’s not a redhead is he, by any chance? He is?’

  Her eyes met Oliver’s, and she nodded, handing him the piece of paper on which she’d written a name. ‘Splendid. In this cold weather you don’t want to leave a window broken . . . I can see it’s going to be a real problem, not having a caretaker on site, but I suppose Sir Lucas will see to that soonest. Yes, I’ll probably be popping round later to see if Maggie’s all right. Bye.’

  She put the phone down. ‘Donald. Redhead. Businessman. Cynthia’s partner. Lucy is of the opinion that he lets her have her own way too much. He could be the man who’s been playing tricks on Carmela and Evonne. I have samples of the call-girl cards which a red-headed businessman put in a phone booth near the flats. I took the precaution of putting the cards in a plastic sleeve, so unless he’s been very careful indeed, we’ll find his fingerprints on them.’

  ‘That would be proof enough to hand the matter over to the police.’

  ‘I don’t think either of the women would want to prosecute even if we had proof positive that it was Donald who did it. It may be enough just to tell him that we know what he’s been up to. We’ll have a word with him about it this afternoon.’

  ‘Right. Problem solved.’

  ‘Other problems remain. I think I’d like another cosy afternoon chat with Carmela. I know what Carrie and Lucy think about the other tenants, but Carmela may have a different take on them.’

  The landline phone rang. ‘Who . . .? On a Sunday morning?’

  A strange voice. A man, educated; a hint of a Polish accent? ‘Mrs Abbot? I’m pleased to have caught you. I represent the managing agents for a block of flats which Sir Lucas owns. I emailed you last night giving the details, but you haven’t seen fit to reply.’

  Bea put the call on speaker and rapidly accessed her emails. ‘Apologies. I was dealing with another urgent matter this morning, but . . . yes, I have your email up in front of me now.’

  ‘Sir Lucas asked me to contact you on his behalf to—’

  ‘I’d like to speak to him, yes.’

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible as he’s on his way to Frankfurt for a meeting, but he left a message for me to check with you. He understands you run a domestic agency, and he’s in urgent need of a replacement caretaker. He suggests you may be able to provide someone for us to interview at short notice.’

  Bea let silence develop as she thought about this development.

  ‘Mrs Abbot? Are you there?’

  Bea said, ‘Yes, I’m here. I don’t believe we’ve done any business with you before.’

  ‘I believe not. Sir Lucas indicated that we would be happy to transfer more of his business to you in future if you are able to help us out in this instance.’

  ‘You are aware of the circumstances under which the previous caretaker lost his life?’

  ‘A tragic accident, I understand. Deplorable. We always impress upon our staff the necessity of observing health and safety regulations. I understand that someone is being sent down from Head Office to take over for the next few days but I am looking for a long-term and permanent replacement. May I suggest you let me have, say, three names and contact details of suitable candidates by Tuesday morning?’

  End of phone call.

  Bea took a deep breath. Crunch point. She knew which way she wanted to jump, but would Oliver follow her lead? How clearly did he now see the temptation to give in to Sir Lucas?

  ‘Did you get all that, Oliver? Sir Lucas acts fast. Let me interpret; a member of his staff – one of his security guards, I imagine – is taking over the caretaker’s duties as of now. The caretaker’s death has been written off as negligence and my mouth is being shut by the promise of more work for the agency. The subtext is that I drop my investigations and nothing gets into the newspapers. And don’t say, “That’s the way of the world,” or I’ll have hysterics.’

  ‘That is the way of the world, unfortunately.’

  ‘Then I am not of this world.’ There. She’d said it out loud.

  He frowned. ‘I don’t understand why he thinks we could supply him with a caretaker. The Abbot Agency doesn’t “do” caretakers.’

  ‘If I were anxious to keep in with Sir Lucas I’d bustle around, contacting everyone I knew in other agencies, in order to fulfil his order and earn his smiles. He’s counting on my doing so. But I’m not going to follow the script he’s laid out for me.’

  He stared at her and through her. When it came to the point, would he opt out of the fight so as to keep his options open with Sir Lucas and all that he represented?

  She said, ‘If you want to dissociate yourself from me in this then so be it, but let me make it clear: I’m going to continue poking and prying till I’ve isolated and dealt with the evil that’s wrecking the lives of everyone in that building.’

  ‘But he’s found the traitor in his camp.’

  ‘I never thought the problems at the flats emanated from Vicori. It’s something to do with the people there. Someone, or maybe more than one, has it in for the rest of them. The damage to Sir Lucas was, I think, collateral.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I agree with Lady Ossett that the original target was not Sir Lucas, but his wife. Which brings us back to Maggie and makes me wonder if she herself is now in danger. Let’s get over there and see what we can do to sort things out . . . that is, if you’re willing to enter the field of battle at my side?’

  FOURTEEN

  Sunday noon

  ‘Who do we ask to let us in?’ Oliver huddled his jacket around him in the east wind.

  Even Bea was feeling the cold, and she was wearing a padded, full-length coat and her second-best pair of high-heeled boots. Both clutched bottles of wine.

  ‘Slippers,’ said Bea, producing a beaded pair from her handbag. ‘They belong to Evonne, the girl in the ground floor flat. She lent them to me when I was attacked, and we’re now returning them to her, with a bottle of wine by way of thanks.’ She rang the bell for Evonne’s flat and was invited to enter.

  It was warm inside the foyer. So at least the central heating was working, even if the caretaker had been removed.

  ‘Who are you?’ A l
arge man in a tracksuit, with a pale, flat face and a shaved head. He had ‘nightclub bouncer’ written all over him. Or, if you wanted to be mealy-mouthed, you might call him ‘Security’.

  ‘Are you standing in for the caretaker?’ said Bea. ‘I was told Sir Lucas had arranged for someone to come in.’

  He repeated in the same dead tones, ‘Who are you?’

  The door of Evonne’s flat opened. ‘She’s visiting me, Gary. It’s all right.’

  ‘Can’t be too careful.’ Gary glowered at them before disappearing down the stairs.

  ‘Come in.’

  Evonne gestured to them to enter, but Oliver flourished his bottle of wine and said, ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to go up and apologize to Harvey for what happened yesterday.’

  ‘Good on you,’ said the girl and, while Oliver summoned the lift, she ushered Bea into her flat.

  The air still stank of cigarettes, but some attempt had been made to clean the place up, and it was now possible to sit on two of the easy chairs. An old war film was playing on the television with appropriate bangs, whizzes and crashes. Connor was lying on the settee with his feet up, a can of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

  The girl pushed his feet off the arm of the settee as she passed. ‘Shove up, Connor. We have a visitor.’ And to Bea, ‘Take a seat. Want a coffee or something?’

  Bea sat, hoping the stain on the upholstery was dry, and laid down the bottle of wine and the bag into which she’d put Evonne’s slippers. ‘Coffee would be great. It was very kind of you to lend me your slippers. I don’t know how I’d have got home without them. I hope you like the wine.’

  ‘Well, thanks. Did they find out who killed the cat?’

  ‘I haven’t heard.’ Which was true. Bea wondered if Momi’s body had been disposed of yet, and if the Professor had decided to have another cat or not. And, thinking of what she’d heard about the Professor, whether or not his daughter was in favour of his friendship with Lady O.