False Alarm Read online

Connor turned the sound on the television up.

  The girl backhanded him. ‘Give it a rest.’

  Connor protested, ‘It’s my television.’

  ‘It’s my flat.’

  Bea said to the girl, ‘I really would like a cup of coffee, if possible. I seem to have missed lunch.’

  ‘Coming up.’

  Bea followed the girl out to the kitchen. ‘Evonne, I wanted a word in private. Did you think it was Connor who’d put your name on the call-girl cards? Ah, you did, didn’t you? I couldn’t think up any other reason why you didn’t call the police.’

  The girl switched on the kettle, her back to Bea. And didn’t respond.

  ‘It wasn’t him,’ said Bea.

  The girl said, ‘Biscuits? We might have some, if that slug outside hasn’t scoffed the lot.’

  ‘You thought he’d set it up to impress you, so that he could appear as your knight in shining armour and rescue you when prospective clients appeared? I noticed you weren’t displeased when he got beaten up by your visitor on Friday.’

  ‘I was beaten up as well.’

  ‘I saw. And Connor tried to defend you. He really did try to defend you, without any ulterior motive. May I ask what’s gone wrong between you two?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘True. I believe someone else in this building made a pass at you. Right or wrong?’

  A shrug. ‘Well, yes; but it wasn’t anything serious, you know.’

  ‘Donald; from the flat immediately above you.’

  A look of surprise. ‘How did you know? Did you say you wanted tea or coffee?’

  ‘Either. It was only ever likely to be someone in the flats because the person concerned had access to your landline number and your address. You hadn’t been getting on with Connor, and therefore you suspected him. Now, I’ve been told that someone other than the usual pimps recently dropped some call-girl cards off in a local phone box. My informant rescued a couple of the cards and described the man to me. He’s a red-headed businessman.’

  Evonne handed Bea a mug of coffee. ‘Donald? Are you sure? What a lark if . . . No, surely you’re mistaken.’

  ‘He might have thought it was just a joke.’

  ‘Some joke! Inciting men to phone me at all hours of the night . . . and that man on Friday actually tried to rape me.’

  ‘You agree that Donald has to be stopped?’

  ‘If it is him, then yes; of course. But . . . what on earth will Cyn say?’ Shocked laughter. ‘I mean, she’s something else!’ The girl made herself a cup of coffee, too. ‘Are you sure, though? I mean, men try it on all the time. It doesn’t mean that they’re going to turn into stalkers or anything.’

  ‘Not a stalker. Worse.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. What he did was much worse. It’s difficult to get my head round this. I mean, someone I know! Carmela’s phone number was on the cards, too. Which means that he also tried making a pass at her . . .’ Evonne was still in shock, but this amused her. ‘I’d like to have seen her face! She’s a toughie. Ugh. I’m trying to think of the mentality of a man who sets punters on to women who’ve refused him. Not nice.’

  ‘No, and he’s got to be stopped. The first step is to confront him with it, but for that I need your help. Will you come upstairs with me and talk to him about it?’

  ‘No police.’

  ‘Donald needs psychiatric help or he’ll find another woman to persecute. If he agrees to counselling, then we can leave the police out of it.’

  ‘My dad would kill me if it got into the papers. It was bad enough when I got a caution, the rioting last year, you know? I was off my head on something Connor had given me, but . . . No, I won’t shove all the blame on to him. I was as bad as him. Have a biscuit, and we’ll beard the dragon in her den. I’m looking forward to seeing you deal with our Cynthia. She’s a dragon, you know.’

  ‘In which case, perhaps we’re rescuing a victim from her clutches?’

  Evonne started to laugh, spluttered into her coffee, coughed, sneezed, and used some kitchen towel to blow her nose. ‘Oh, you!’ she said. ‘All right. What do we tell Connor?’

  ‘Nothing, till we’re sure of our ground. Let’s leave Connor watching his war film while we tackle the man upstairs.’

  Cynthia opened the door to them. Dressed all in black, six foot plus. Black hair, severely cut. High cheekbones. A frown. ‘Yes?’

  Evonne said, ‘May we come in?’

  Cyn transferred her frown to Bea. ‘Is this the busybody who’s been turning everyone upside down?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Bea, ‘and more to come, I’m afraid. We really came to speak to your partner but—’

  ‘What’s he done now?’ Fierce, but not defensive.

  ‘Perhaps nothing,’ said Bea. ‘It may be a case of mistaken identity.’

  Cyn didn’t move to let them in. ‘What’s he supposed to have done, then?’

  Bea produced the cards in their plastic wallet and held them up for Cynthia to see. ‘These call-girl cards were left in a public phone box nearby. One of them gives the phone numbers for Evonne and Carmela. In consequence, they’ve had to deal with a number of unpleasant calls.’

  ‘What? This is the first I’ve heard of it. What’s it got to do with me?’

  ‘Nothing. Carmela dealt with the problem by getting rid of her landline. Evonne and Connor dithered; did nothing about it. On Friday a new card was put in the phone box, giving Evonne’s address. Not her phone number; her actual address, here in this building. A punter saw the card and called on Evonne, demanding her services. When he was refused, he tried to rape her. She and Connor had much ado to beat him off.’

  Cynthia reached for the cards but Bea held them high, out of reach. ‘There are fingerprints on them, made by the man who was seen to put them in the phone box. We have a description, and the description matches Donald.’

  ‘Ridiculous!’ She shouted back into the flat. ‘Don! Come here!’

  A man appeared behind her. Tall, slightly built, with ginger hair beginning to recede and nervously fluttering eyelids. He wore a blue and white sweater with a pattern of reindeer on it, over jeans. Office manager in casual attire.

  Cynthia said, ‘You heard? Tell them she’s mistaken.’ And to Bea, ‘He’s not much cop in bed, of course, but he wouldn’t . . .’ She turned back to him and gaped, because if anyone looked guilty, it was him.

  Donald flushed. ‘I . . . I . . .’

  Cynthia said, in tones of disbelief, ‘You can’t mean that you . . .?’

  He stammered. ‘I-I-m s-sorry. It wasn’t m-meant to be—’

  ‘You bastard!’ Cynthia caught him a backhander across his chin. He reeled back into the flat, ending up on his back like an insect, hands in the air, knees working to push himself along the carpet and away from her.

  The door of the flat slammed in Bea’s face.

  Silence.

  Evonne said, ‘Ought we to do something?’

  Bea chewed her lower lip. ‘Mm. What would you advise?’

  They stared at the closed door.

  Heavy steps mounted the stairs behind them. The new caretaker. ‘What’s going on?’

  The door to Cynthia’s flat opened again. Bea and Evonne stepped back in haste as the wretched Donald was thrown out and across the landing. He ended up against the door of the McIntyres’ flat opposite. An overcoat followed. The door slammed. Donald put his hand to his cheek, which was reddening.

  The door opened. A laptop whizzed out, followed by an armful of clothing.

  ‘What’s all this, then?’ The new caretaker, out of his depth.

  The door of the McIntyres’ flat opened and Eliot’s head appeared. ‘What’s going on?’

  More clothing. A suitcase, lid jumping open. Some books.

  ‘Has someone declared World War Three?’ Carmela, exquisitely dressed, descended the stairs, ready for her afternoon constitutional.

  Cynthia reappeared, to toss out a gym bag and some shoes. She notic
ed Carmela and said, ‘That worm gave your phone number out as a call girl.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ said Carmela. ‘I wondered if it might be him.’ She wore stiletto-heeled boots. ‘No police.’ As she walked across the landing, she accidentally or otherwise trod on one of Donald’s hands.

  He screamed.

  Bea yearned for killer heels like that. So stylish. So deadly.

  Carmela shook her heel out of Donald’s hand and proceeded down the stairs without even turning her head.

  Donald whimpered, holding his hand high in the air. ‘Help me, someone!’ Blood welled.

  The caretaker said, ‘Stop that racket!’

  ‘Shouldn’t we do something?’ Eliot wanted to help, but didn’t know how. ‘He ought to have a bandage on that.’

  Cynthia dumped another armful outside her door. ‘I’ll put the rest out for the dustmen tomorrow morning.’ She went back into her flat and shut the door behind her.

  Helen McIntyre peered over her husband’s shoulder. ‘What happened? Oh, Donald, that looks nasty!’

  Eliot turned to Bea as the person who seemed likeliest to enlighten him. ‘Shouldn’t we get him to a doctor’s or something?’

  Donald was crying with pain. ‘My hand’s broken! Someone, help me!’

  ‘He needs a doctor, all right,’ said Evonne, addressing the McIntyres and the caretaker. ‘He needs a psychiatrist. Don’t you dare help him! It was he who put the call-girl cards in a phone booth with our phone numbers on them, just because I told him to take his hands off me. He doesn’t deserve our pity.’ And to Donald, ‘Take a cab, and take your belongings with you.’

  He whined, ‘I can’t. How can I? Someone lend me a handkerchief to put round my hand!’

  Helen said, ‘I’ll fetch my first-aid box,’ and disappeared.

  Eliot, with distaste in his voice, said, ‘I suppose we could store his things in our flat till tomorrow.’

  The caretaker made up his mind to help. ‘Don’t you worry. I’ll see him off the premises, him and all his belongings. Your keys to this building, sir. If you please.’

  ‘She’s crippled me for life!’

  Helen reappeared with a metal first-aid box, saying, ‘No, no. It’s not as bad as that.’ She produced a large plaster and stuck it over the back of Donald’s hand.

  ‘Your keys, sir,’ repeated the caretaker.

  Donald was in tears, but fumbled a bunch of keys out of his jeans pocket, and handed them over.

  ‘What’s happening?’ The lift doors opened to reveal Carrie and Lucy, fresh from their afternoon nap, and all agog.

  Evonne, hands on hips, explained. ‘This is the rat who put me and Carmela in danger. Not to worry; he’s leaving.’

  Donald, still crying and holding up his damaged hand, struggled to get into his overcoat. ‘It was only a joke. You can’t throw me out. Where am I supposed to go?’

  ‘A hotel,’ said Evonne. ‘If they’ll have you. Be grateful we’re not calling the police. But listen to me! You’d better get your GP to refer you to a specialist counsellor, because if you don’t I’ll be ringing your line manager at work and telling him exactly what you’ve been up to. And yes, I do know where you work, because you told me how well you were doing, and how worthwhile it would be for me to be nice to you.’

  The caretaker scooped up some of Donald’s belongings. ‘Let me help you with your things. Sir.’ The door of the flat opened, and a heavy black plastic bag flew out, narrowly missing Donald. The door slammed shut again.

  Helen dived back into her flat to produce a second black plastic bag, and together with Bea, they picked up everything of Donald’s which wouldn’t go into the suitcase and gym bag.

  ‘Thank you, miss,’ said the caretaker. ‘I’ll take care of this gentleman now. I’ll get him a taxi and put him and everything he owns into it.’

  Cynthia’s door opened again, and a flutter of credit cards dropped to the floor, followed by an empty leather wallet. The cards had been neatly cut up. Oh. That was going to make life difficult for Donald, wasn’t it?

  Bea’s estimation of Cynthia rose. A formidable woman, indeed. Now, what about his mobile phone, or did he have an iPad?

  No sooner thought about than they, too, were thrown out on to the landing. It looked as if Cynthia had taken a hammer to both.

  Donald, tears straggling down his reddened face, picked up what he could of the remains of his life and shuffled off down the stairs, followed by the caretaker humping his luggage.

  Evonne brushed one hand off against the other. ‘May his love life never improve.’

  Lucy and Sylvia’s eyes were round, their cheeks flushed with pleasure. ‘What a scandal! Do you mean he really . . .? Oh, who would have thought it?’

  Bea followed Donald and the caretaker down the stairs and out into the street. A nasty cold wind was blowing and Donald shivered as he stood, surrounded by luggage, waiting for a taxi.

  Bea, uncharitably, hoped one wouldn’t come along for quite a while.

  She turned up the street and made for the local café, which she trusted would be open on a Sunday. It was indeed, and as crowded as usual.

  She managed to get a table for two and ordered soup and a piece of pie, with some coffee to follow. While waiting for her food, she rang Oliver on her mobile.

  ‘How are you doing, Oliver? Donald has been disposed of. Where are you now?’

  ‘I’ve just finished up at Harvey’s; I dare say I ought to feel sorry for him, but I don’t. He’s a regular peeping Tom, has pictures of everyone in the flats and has even taken some of people living in the building opposite. He says he uses them as the basis for characters in his stories, and all I can say is that he’s lucky not to have been sued by someone before now. He’s presented me with a signed copy of one of his little tales, which I do not intend to read.

  ‘Anyway, I’m on my way up to see Maggie now because she’s all on her own. Her mother’s gone out, and Maggie doesn’t know when she’ll be back, but supper has to be on the table for . . . whenever. I asked her to come out with me, get a breath of fresh air, but she won’t. How did you dispose of Donald?’

  ‘With ease and the help of his ex-girlfriend. I’m shutting my phone off now to have some lunch, but I’ll get back to you later.’

  ‘You’re coming back to the flats?’

  ‘I think so, yes. I’ve someone to see first.’ She clicked off the phone. She hoped she’d read the situation aright.

  Yes, she had. For here came Carmela, standing in the doorway of the café and looking around for somewhere to sit. Bea indicated the chair opposite. ‘I kept a place for you.’

  ‘I thought you might.’

  ‘Love your boots.’

  ‘I do trust the blood can be washed off. A pity about the ones you wore on Friday. Are they repairable?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Civilities dealt with and food ordered, the two women got down to business.

  Carmela said, ‘My thanks to you for dealing with Donald. I thought it might be him, but I had no proof.’

  ‘My proof came via a seller of the Big Issue, whose stand is by the public phone boxes opposite the tube station. He observes everything that goes on; sees the pimps putting the call-girl cards into the phone boxes, is amused by those who remove them. He spotted Donald putting some cards into the boxes, noted that he was not one of the usual run of pimps, and thought there might be a fiver or two in it for him if he collected some evidence. Which he did. I gave the lad fifty pounds, which I think was well worth it. I couldn’t be sure Donald’s fingerprints were on the cards, but the description I got did in fact lead straight to the culprit.’

  ‘Money well spent. I’ll repay you, of course.’

  ‘I think I can understand what made him approach other women. Cynthia was too much of a good thing for him, so he tried his luck elsewhere and when that didn’t work—’

  ‘Yes, but when he’d been told there was nothing doing, he shouldn’t have tried to embarrass us.’ />
  ‘I rather think it caused more than embarrassment in Evonne’s case. She suspected Connor was at the back of it, and it’s ruined their relationship.’

  ‘Poor Connor. He used to be such a handsome, go-getting lad. Comes from a good family. Both sets of parents were pleased when they hitched up, but then they went a bit wild, started to drink heavily, got mixed up in the riots last year. They didn’t do any great damage or steal anything of value but they spent a night in custody and were heavily fined. She reacted by pretending not to care about anything. He shaved his head and became devoted to daytime television. Night time, too, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Bea was curious. ‘How do you know so much about the other tenants of the flats? I mean, usually in London you don’t even know your neighbour’s name, never mind their background. Ah,’ she answered her own question. ‘The two biddies.’

  ‘They run up and down the stairs, taking in parcels and making sure we all have food if we get flu or whatever. Dreadful gossips, both of them. I don’t dislike it in a way. As one grows older, one likes to feel there would be some backup if anything went wrong.’

  ‘Understood. Was Harvey acting as your backup when he took photos of men leaving your apartment?’

  Carmela laughed. ‘Harvey overheard an altercation with one of my visitors who’d had a drop too much to drink and came out to see what was happening. It was rather brave of him, don’t you think? The man concerned was a regular client but he’d just heard some bad news . . . which is no excuse for bad behaviour, but there; it happens. I have a pepper spray for protection and such conduct doesn’t normally trouble me, but on that occasion I was pleased to receive assistance from my neighbour.’

  Her coffee and Bea’s soup came, and they both attended to the inner woman.

  Carmela said, ‘My way of life can be lonely at times, and Harvey can be good company. We occasionally meet up for an evening at the theatre or a film.’

  ‘Was it he who decided to take pictures of your visitors? Er, you do know about that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, and his pretty pictures of the young men he fancies . . . not that he ever takes it any further than that, you understand. It was his idea to take the pictures of my visitors as they left. He felt he was protecting me. I didn’t see any particular harm in it.’