False Report Read online

He said, ‘Have you noticed that even young girls fail to blush, nowadays? Is it a lost art, do you think? Older women rarely blush, but they’re usually wearing so much make-up that I probably wouldn’t notice if they did. As a woman, do you have an opinion on this?’

  He was serious? Incredible.

  She said, lightly, ‘Modern society holds that there’s nothing we can do that we need to be ashamed of, that every kind of behaviour is acceptable. I suppose I might blush from embarrassment if I’d made a really stupid remark and hurt someone’s feelings.’

  ‘Precisely my point. You might blush out of embarrassment but that’s not the same thing as blushing for shame. My question was: did he blush from shame, or from embarrassment? I’d watched him psyche himself up to go to the concert. He sat by himself, talked to no one. He had gone there to watch the cellist perform. When she played a wrong note in her solo, he reddened out of embarrassment. He was concerned for her.

  ‘Afterwards, he waited till she was free to speak to him. He congratulated her on her performance, and she rebuffed him. He overheard what my friend’s daughter said. There was a general drawing back of skirts. And he blushed.

  ‘He caught my eye. He recognized me and saw that I’d recognized him. There was no shame in his eyes. Defiance and embarrassment, yes. But no shame. At that moment I decided that he didn’t belong in the dock, and that if he had done what they said, there must be extenuating circumstances. So, as we left the church together, I introduced myself and asked if he’d like to join me for a spot of supper. He agreed.’

  ‘Even though he’d been accused of abusing an under-age girl?’

  ‘In my time I’ve observed some young girls who were more predator than prey. I wondered who was the victim in this case. His name is Jeremy Waite, by the way. His wife is Eunice, twice married, a barrister who is so absorbed by her career that she’s never had any time to be a housewife and has handed over the upbringing of her only child to paid help. Her daughter is the cellist Jeremy spoke to at the concert. No children by him.’

  ‘Is she the girl he seduced?’

  ‘That’s why I need a second opinion . . . yours. I’d be surprised if he seduced anyone . . . but maybe I’m wrong. You see, we went to an Italian restaurant where the young and pretty waitress failed to stir his pulse, as did the young and pretty wine waiter. I was watching for a reaction from him to either, and there was none. We moved on to have coffee at my place, where he received a phone call from a girl – I could hear her high, clear voice – on his mobile. He told her that no, he was not going to meet her under any circumstances, and shut her off.

  ‘He explained to me in what seemed genuine bemusement that a young girl he’d befriended had been causing him no end of trouble. He said that being accused of misconduct with an under-age pupil was one of the professional hazards of being a teacher but he’d never thought he’d be a victim. She’d lost him his job teaching, but fortunately he had plenty of other work on, and he wasn’t going to let it get him down.’

  ‘Didn’t you say his wife had kicked him out because of his liaison with a girl?’

  ‘From the little he said, I gather,’ said CJ smoothly, ‘that that might have been a relief to him, but he didn’t comment, so I didn’t enquire. I got out the brandy. A pleasant evening. Apparently the girl in question was killed soon after we went into the church for the concert.’

  ‘And he wasn’t out of your sight all evening?’

  ‘He went to the loo upstairs at my place when it was time for him to go, just before midnight. I was going to ring for a cab for him. He said he’d walk, as it was a fine night, but as I was letting him out, a taxi drew up outside to let off a fare, and he took it on. He’s renting a flat in one of the roads at the back of Church Street. It’s small but convenient. Only, he admits he’s not very domesticated. I told him you might be able to find him someone to come in several times a week to look after him.’

  ‘What?’ Bea gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘Do I take it that you aren’t sure he’s as squeaky clean as you imagined, and that you want me to spy on him?’

  CJ got to his feet with a smile for a man approaching them across the courtyard. ‘Judge for yourself. Jeremy, this is my good friend Bea Abbot, who runs a domestic agency and may be able to help you out.’

  TWO

  Bea shot CJ a glance of pure cyanide as a small but well-made man, bearing a distinct likeness to a garden gnome, trotted over to them. He wasn’t a dwarf, but he was vertically challenged. He must have been in his fifties, with a mop of greying hair which curled up into two ‘horns’ on top of his head, and a short, curly goatee that curved upwards, too. His eyes were a bright blue, and his cheeks shone as if they’d been polished.

  Unlike a genuine garden gnome, he wasn’t wearing a red jacket and green trousers, but Bea did note he was wearing odd socks and brown sandals. The rest of him was clad in a Canadian-style lumberjacket in some designer’s fanciful idea of a tartan, over a white T-shirt and jeans. The jeans looked new; everything else looked well worn.

  The gnome twinkled at her. ‘My saviour, Mrs Abbot. Did my friend tell you I’m in need of rescuing, house-wise?’ His nose twitched. ‘Why aren’t you eating? Do I smell good coffee and sandwiches? I’m afraid CJ hasn’t been looking after you properly. Do let me treat you to something to eat. I haven’t eaten all day; quite forgot, you know. Been taking pains, har har, as the king said about his visit to the dentist . . .’

  Bea rolled her eyes at CJ, who hid a grin behind his hand as he backed away, explaining that he was late for another appointment.

  The little man said, ‘Come on inside, this way, are you a Friend of the RA? Very useful place for meetings, and the food is tasty. I sometimes come here when I’m working; when I remember, that is. I’ve often thought I ought to bring a doggy bag with me, in case there are any leftovers, but sadly there never are. Now what would you like, dear lady?’

  Bea tried to take control of the situation. ‘Frankly, Mr Waite, I’ve just been treated to a good tea and I’m not hungry.’

  ‘What a pity.’ He had the innocent look of a hungry child denied a treat.

  ‘But I’d be happy to have another cup of tea while you eat, if we can do it straight away. I mustn’t be too long, though.’ Looking at her watch.

  ‘Delightful,’ he said, bouncing along at her side into the restaurant. The top of his head just about came up to her shoulder. ‘Now, if you take a slice of that tart and some cheese and biscuits, I’ll have the salmon en croute and finish up anything you can’t eat, right?’

  He laughed, and the sound was agreeable. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you. My housekeeping skills are not – you know? We had a weekly order from Waitrose that I could dip into whenever I wished, and I’m hopeless with a computer, the last time I tried to order something it turned out I’d pressed the wrong button several times by mistake and we had a mountain of frozen peas delivered and they lasted for months. I desperately need someone who’ll organize putting some decent frozen meals in the freezer for me every week. I never really bother about food when I’m working, but when I stop I feel ravenous and have to make up for lost time. And I’m not particularly good at keeping the bathroom clean. So, do you think you could help me?’

  ‘I might, yes,’ said Bea, amused.

  He carried a loaded tray to the cashier, paid for his and her meals with a gold card, and ushered her to a table near the windows. ‘Perhaps it ought to be a woman of a certain age, preferably married? What do you think? If she could also manage a few bits of admin for me, paying bills and so on, that would be wonderful but perhaps too much to ask for? CJ has told you about the little problem I’ve been having? Just a cup of tea for you? Is that all? Are you sure you can’t manage some of that tart? It looks good.’

  ‘CJ softened me up by treating me to tea at the Ritz.’

  ‘Do they still have a pianist? The last time I went, I got the impression that the soft pedal had been wired down so that she didn’t make too much noise.
’

  Bea spurted into laughter, and he smiled. He was not – as CJ had noted – agonizing over past sins of omission or commission. Rather against her better judgement, Bea found herself liking the little man. She found it difficult to imagine anyone less likely to start pawing young girls. He hadn’t even looked at her legs, which were worth a look, though she said so herself. Neither had his eyes lingered on the cleavage to be glimpsed under her gauzy top. CJ had been right; this man was not particularly interested in sex.

  ‘I need someone to come in perhaps twice a week to keep me straight. Can you arrange that? I’m currently in a furnished one-bedroom flat which is also my studio for the time being, though I’m looking for a place where I can have my grand piano and where it won’t matter if I play music all hours of the day and night.’

  ‘Two hours, for two mornings a week?’

  ‘You would know best. Do I have to sign a contract or something?’

  ‘I’ll send you one, if you’ll let me have your current address.’

  He extracted a business card, crossed out one address and wrote in another. ‘The mobile number is the same. I haven’t been able to fix up a landline yet.’

  ‘Lots of people don’t bother with a landline, nowadays.’ She gave him her card, too.

  ‘I see you live very near my new place.’ He smiled, relaxed. ‘Thank you, Mrs Abbot. I don’t know why CJ had to drag you out here. We could have done this over the phone.’

  She was terse. ‘You know perfectly well that he’s staged this meeting in this public place so that we can talk without being overheard. He wants me to find out if you are a saint or a sinner.’

  ‘Neither, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Who is? Would it help to talk?’

  ‘Not really. I’m sorry about the girl dying. She didn’t deserve that. But –’ an expressive shrug – ‘I have an alibi for the time of her death, which is rather extraordinary when you come to think of it, because I had intended to work late by myself last night, only I got stuck and went out for a walk. That’s when I remembered Clarissa was playing in a concert locally. And then I met CJ. If I hadn’t, I suppose I might even have gone to meet Josie when she asked . . . and then I’d have been in the soup, wouldn’t I?’

  Thursday afternoon

  Nance, on the phone. ‘I’m on the train, just coming into Kings Cross station. Have the police arrested him yet?’

  ‘They took him away for questioning all right – but he’s back, free as air.’

  ‘You must have messed up, telling them about him.’

  ‘I told the police, just as you said, then I went round to watch his flat from across the road for a bit, but there’s no cover there and I didn’t half get some odd looks. Anyway, he came back in a taxi about midnight, went upstairs, put the lights on for a few minutes, then turned them off. Didn’t come out again. Some busybody said I was up to no good, lurking in the shadows, and she was going to ring the police if I didn’t scarper, so I did. But I went back this morning to check.

  ‘His flat’s above a corner café, all the locals use it. The chap who runs it is quite a character, a great gossip. Someone said he’d been inside for drugs once, but has been clean for years. Anyway, Josie’s murder was front page news, as you can imagine. Everyone was talking about it, and they were only too happy to include me in the gossip. Apparently the police turned up this morning and took my laddo away with them. So everyone added two and two, and connected him with it.

  ‘I relaxed, ordered a panini, but blow me down, he was back an hour later, just as I was about to leave! The only thing I can think of is that he’d arranged for himself to have an alibi and got someone else to knock her off.’

  ‘True, his wife’s got contacts through her work in the courts, but she threw him out so—’

  ‘There’s more. I told the man at the café that I earned my living feeding news items to the newspapers and would pay good money to find out what was happening. So he phoned me a while back to say the little man had come down from his flat and was walking along the road towards Church Street. Well, I’d just settled in with a pint up the road so I scrambled back only to see him getting on a bus into town. I was lucky enough to get a taxi to follow him. And, would you believe, he got off in Piccadilly and walked along to where all the toffee-nobs hang out, the Royal Academy, you know, private courtyard with all those weird sculptures in it?

  ‘He went straight up to a woman, not young, well-preserved fifties, looks the sort you wouldn’t want to mess with, and took her through into the café at the back. He’s sitting in there now, chatting away to her like they were old friends. Could this be his wife?’

  ‘What? I don’t believe this!’

  ‘I’m having a sandwich myself, but keeping them in sight. Don’t worry, he’s no idea he’s being followed.’

  Thursday afternoon

  Bea said, ‘Jeremy, do you really think that if it hadn’t been for the coincidence of meeting CJ, you’d have been arrested for murder?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ He eyed the cheese and biscuits. ‘Aren’t you going to eat those? No?’ He transferred them to his side of the table and tucked in. She was amazed at his ability to put away so much food so quickly. And him without an ounce of fat on him. She remembered her mother saying, of a healthy, hungry, teenager, ‘He’s got hollow legs.’ She stifled a grin. ‘What was the girl like?’

  ‘Josie? Nice kid, I thought. Well, I wasn’t thinking, was I? I was wafting around on the wings of song, on a deadline, should have delivered the day before but fortunately they’d let me have an extension till the end of the week . . . just like this week, come to think of it, when I’ve had it up to here, my brains made of mushy peas, and I’m taking the day off, hoping that I think of a way to lead back into the theme song without . . . but you don’t know anything about music, do you? I can see from your face that I’m boring you. I’m afraid I do tend to bore people about it so I usually don’t start but . . .’ He tapped a rhythm out on her teapot, shook his head, and said, ‘No, no. That won’t do, either. I have to finish in the key of A major, which probably sounds like Esperanto, or as near as, to you.’

  ‘Josie,’ she said, trying not to laugh. ‘A nice kid, you thought. But . . .?’

  He shook his head at himself. ‘You know, I taught music in that school for twenty-odd years and I still didn’t see it coming. I mean, I’m not exactly the sort to attract kids, am I? What’s more, I’m married, though I suppose . . .’ Again he shook his head at himself. He seized the last piece of cheese, lathered a biscuit with the last of the butter, and popped the whole into his mouth. ‘Yum, yum, bubble gum. You don’t fancy some more tea, do you? That cup must be cold by now.’

  ‘You say you were married,’ said Bea. ‘Not any longer?’

  ‘She threw me out. Is divorcing me.’ He looked around with a vague expression on his face. ‘I don’t know why I was surprised when it happened, because we hadn’t had much to say to one another for a long time, and I’m not exactly love’s young dream, am I?’

  Bea shook her head, smiling. Indeed he wasn’t.

  ‘It suited us both to stay married, I suppose. I was proud of her, and we both love the house. It was my parents’ house, you know. Both dead. I suppose I’ll have to sell up and give her half the proceeds. Clarissa’s eighteen, almost grown-up. I love having a stepdaughter. I probably saw more of her when she was in her teens than Eunice ever did. I’m sorry that she believes . . .’ His voice trailed away.

  Bea said, ‘CJ said you were a teacher?’

  ‘From Eunice’s point of view, mine was never much of a job; teaching the rudiments of music to adolescents, no great kudos or money or anything. Looking back, I suspect she’d begun to get bored with me, what with her being such a high flyer and getting more and more highly paid briefs. Understandable, don’t you think? I know that when I tried to tell her about writing music for television, she wasn’t at all interested. I suppose the writing was on the wall then, only I didn’t see it coming.�
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  ‘Couldn’t you have kept your house?’

  ‘To tell the truth, I was so shocked that I . . . I couldn’t think straight. She told me to pack some things and go to a hotel. So I did. Then I went down the road to the estate agents and asked them to find me a flat, and they did. Ideally, I’d like to find somewhere with a bit more space. I’ve got this small flat over a café at the back of Church Street at the moment. It’s a bit shabby, but there is an upright piano there, iron frame, wonder of wonders, and it’s reasonably in tune, too, which you can never be sure about in rented accommodation.’

  ‘Might I be correct in saying that Eunice married you, rather than that you courted her?’

  ‘Mm? Oh yes, I suppose so. She’d had a bad time with her first, you know, and there I was, managing to push Clarissa through her exams and I was a good listener in those days because I’ve never had anything to do with the law courts, and I did find her work fascinating. Could you manage a coffee by any chance? Keep me company?’

  ‘In a minute.’

  ‘She’s brilliant, you know. Quite brilliant. A divorce lawyer, top class. I admire her tremendously. How she manages the house and her job and her daughter, and me . . . I have to take my hat off to her, I really do. But when she’s on a high-profile case we don’t see much of one another, and of course when she is free she likes to party, and that’s not really my scene, you know, which was a bit of a disappointment to her. Though I did try to fit in at first. Later she got someone from her chambers to squire her around. Nice man. Younger. He’s going through a divorce, too.’

  A marriage heading towards the rocks? What had Eunice seen in this gentle, talented man? A house in a good location. A biddable partner, who wouldn’t create waves if she had someone else to party with her? ‘What about your stepdaughter?’

  ‘Clarissa? Oh, she’s well on her way, doesn’t need me any more, which is as it should be, don’t you think?’

  ‘Would you have called yourself a house husband, then?’