False Alarm Page 2

  ‘You said she collects men as other people might collect beer mats.’

  ‘She needs reassurance that she’s not old and ugly.’

  ‘Which you are now supposed to give her? Come off it, Maggie. At least get Lucas’ side of the story before you wreck your career.’

  Maggie’s mouth set in an obstinate line. ‘I promised I’d move back in tomorrow morning.’

  Bea hit her forehead. ‘At least let me try to explain to her that you can’t jettison your career without giving proper notice to everyone concerned. She ought to be able to understand that.’

  Maggie huffed, meaning she didn’t think her mother would see her daughter’s career as being of any importance.

  Bea improvised. ‘Look, I could find her someone to babysit her, someone she could play bridge with; perhaps someone who could chauffeur her around?’

  ‘The archangel Gabriel?’

  ‘No, no. She might try to seduce him.’

  That got a laugh, even if it was only a weak one.

  Bea cast around for ideas. ‘What about a toy boy? Someone to flatter and amuse her?’

  ‘The agency doesn’t have any toy boys on their books.’

  ‘True. Regretfully. But it might be one answer to the problem.’

  Maggie took a deep breath. Frowned. Let the breath out slowly.

  ‘Yes?’ said Bea.

  ‘Suppose . . . Do you think you could persuade her to go on a cruise or something?’

  Bea said, ‘That’s a good idea. She’d have to go out and buy some new outfits, which would divert her mind wonderfully.’

  ‘She would need someone with her to approve of everything she bought and carry her purchases, get her taxis and stuff.’

  ‘We do have people like that on our books. “The Last Resort”, I call them. Older women with the patience of Job and calculators for brains to keep track of their expenses. Shall we try that?’

  Maggie lunged at Bea and gave her a bear hug which left the older women feeling that she’d been assaulted. ‘Bless you!’ Having neatly passed the buck to Bea, Maggie got out her mobile phone. ‘I’m going to give that plumber hell!’

  Bea took herself off down the stairs and into her office, wondering if she hadn’t promised to do more than she could easily perform. Her computer was still running; she’d left the lights on and the curtains open.

  She turned off all the lights except for the one on her desk, so that she could stand by the window and look out over the paved courtyard in the dark. Oblongs of light fell across the stone flags from the kitchen on the floor above, picking out the huge stone pots which Maggie had filled with wallflowers, bulbs and ivies.

  Bea looked across and up . . . up through the naked branches of the big sycamore tree at the end of the garden to the spire of the church at the bottom of the road . . . and beyond that to the twinkle of the odd star . . . or were those the lights of a plane going in to land at Heathrow airport?

  Peace and quiet descended. Standing in the semi-dark by the windows, she was neither in the busy world of the agency and her extended family, nor in the shadows of the garden outside.

  Dear Lord above, what have I got myself into now? I know . . . at least I think I know that you’d want me to help Maggie, but . . .

  I am not the right person to deal with a selfish, conniving little screw-head like Lady Ossett. I just don’t have the patience. I’d want to tell her to pull herself together or slap her or . . . I mean, tact is required here, don’t you think? And is that my strong point? Well, not without an effort, no.

  All right, I know I’m not supposed to despise Maggie’s mother, however difficult she may be. If Maggie’s right and the woman is frightened, then I should be trying to help her, not thwart her desire to have her daughter at home with her.

  Except that . . . if she really is frightened . . .

  I don’t understand what’s going on here. All I know is that I am not the right person to deal with Lady Ossett.

  All right, all right. You’ve dumped it on my plate, and I suppose I have to deal with it. But not without complaining. I am allowed to complain, right?

  I mean, I’m no saint, am I?

  Having argued herself into a better frame of mind, Bea pulled the curtains to and turned on the overhead lights. Her computer was still humming. She brought up the document she’d been studying when Maggie had burst in upon her, and sighed.

  Another problem that she didn’t know how to solve. Should she sign a contract to have a binding relationship with another firm or not? She must decide soon. They were pressing her for a decision, and it made sense in so many ways to link her agency with them. And yet . . . and yet.

  She saved the document and shut down her computer for the night.

  Her landline rang. A glance at the clock showed her it was the right time for Oliver – her adopted son – to ring. He often did so on a Friday before he went out for the evening. Oliver was at university studying something wildly academic and non-understandable in the field of higher mathematics, so perhaps he’d have some words of wisdom for her in the matter of the contract.

  Oliver was on another tack altogether. ‘What’s this about Maggie’s mother wanting her back home? I told her that’s ridiculous, she’ll be on tranquillizers within a week and then what good will she be to man or beast? You’ve got to stop her.’

  ‘You’ve heard, then.’

  ‘Heard? I was just about to go out when she rang, hardly making any sense, saying that if you don’t think of something to rescue her, she’s going to do her duty if it kills her, which it probably will—’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Can’t you talk some sense into her, Mother Hen?’

  The use of her nickname made her smile. Wryly. ‘Have you tried, Oliver?’

  ‘She wouldn’t listen. Look, term’s nearly over. I could come back early if you like. Maggie thinks you shouldn’t be left on your own.’

  ‘Absurd!’

  ‘Yes, but what about the end of year party? You won’t be able to do it without her.’

  Bea bit her lip. She hadn’t forgotten it exactly, but it hadn’t been high on her list of priorities. It had been Maggie’s idea to celebrate the launch of her business as a registered company, Bea’s sixty-second birthday and the signing of the contract with Holland and Butcher. Maggie had wanted it to be a splendiferous event in the annals of Kensington, with entertainment and champagne flowing regardless of cost. Bea wouldn’t have dreamed of holding such a big ‘do’ if Maggie hadn’t suggested it. And in any case, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to plunge into a relationship with H & B . . . Or not without giving it a lot more thought, anyway.

  ‘I want to stop Maggie committing suicide as well. Any ideas?’ she said.

  ‘Just one. I gather Lady O enjoys an extravagant lifestyle. You could hint that Maggie might become a drain on her finances, that she might even be sued, if she doesn’t complete her current contracts. And if she’s not earning, then who would have to pay her debts?’

  ‘A really underhand suggestion. Not worthy of the fine, upstanding, down-sitting young man that you’re supposed to be. I shall adopt it with pleasure.’

  ‘Good.’ Silence. ‘Maggie said her mother was frightened because Lucas fell down some stairs. Is that right?’

  ‘Isn’t it enough that she fears losing her husband, her comfortable way of life, and her home?’

  ‘You know her sort better than I, but I don’t like the sound of Lucas’ fall down the stairs. There really is no cause for alarm, is there?’

  TWO

  Thursday morning

  Bea paid off the taxi and looked up – and up – at the block of flats in which Lady Ossett lived. It was built of cream coloured London brick and had rounded corners, giving the impression of a ship about to sail. Not as tall a block as some. Not a skyscraper. Six or seven floors only? Nineteen twenties, probably. Substantial, not to say solid-looking. Windows shining, paint glistening. Well-maintained. Pricey.

 
A single ‘For Sale’ notice from a national agency advertised a three-bedroom apartment. Not ‘flat’. ‘Apartment’. Appealing to buyers with money to burn?

  Glazed porch at an angle over two steps led up to wide, glass doors.

  A speakerphone entry system. ‘Lady Ossett? Bea Abbot here.’

  A tinny voice, ‘Who?’

  ‘Bea Abbot. Your daughter Maggie asked me to call on you to explain—’

  ‘She’s late. Has something happened to her?’

  ‘She gave me a message for you.’

  Pause. ‘Take the lift to the top, and then the stairs.’

  Click. The front door opened and Bea entered the hall, which was lined with pale wood panelling, with bands of a darker wood in horizontal stripes. The floor was tiled in a geometric pattern; black, white, fawn. The ceiling lights must be original; fluted, understated elegance. Everything was design conscious. Perhaps too much so?

  Directly inside the hall there was a rank of numbered letter-boxes, one for each flat. To left and right were doors leading to ground-floor apartments, while straight ahead there was a lift with a staircase winding around it. Up . . . and down. Down to a basement? A garage? The lift doors were panelled in the same light wood as the rest of the hall and embellished with marquetry panels.

  Bea summoned the lift and rode it to the top. She got out and looked around. Here were doors to two more flats plus an arrow advising visitors to take the stairs one more flight up to the penthouse.

  Why didn’t the lift go up to the penthouse? Had it been added to the building at a later date? Or perhaps the original occupant had not wished to be disturbed by the almost noiseless whine of the machinery?

  Bea took the stairs up until she reached a small landing. The stairs were uncarpeted, of polished wood. The banisters were of the same light wood. More geometric patterns. No expense had been spared, had it?

  Bea scrutinized the newel posts at the head of the stairs. Feeling somewhat silly she produced the small magnifying glass she carried in her handbag for those occasions on which she’d forgotten her reading glasses, and . . . Yes, if you looked hard, you could see where a tack or a nail or something with a sharp point had been driven into the wood of the newel post and later removed. The hole was still there; and yes, there was another on the opposite side of the staircase. At ankle height. If you had a vivid imagination, you might think someone could have tied a nylon thread or perhaps a thin wire to one nail, stretched it across the stairs and tied the end to the other nail. In poor light someone might not notice and take a nasty tumble down . . . how many steps before the flight turned in a different direction?

  Bea counted them. Eight. And then you’d come up against the wall. Or if you were very unlucky, you might continue headlong down the next flight as well. It was very quiet up here, well above the other flats. If he hadn’t had his mobile phone on him, Sir Lucas might have had to stagger down the stairs by himself until he could thump on another occupant’s door and summon assistance. He had indeed been lucky to get away with a broken arm and bruises.

  Someone had come along afterwards to remove the thread and pull the nails out of the woodwork. Bingo. Nothing left to see, except two tiny tack holes.

  Bea took a photograph of both holes on her camera and, standard practice kicking into action, checked to see that the evidence had been recorded and saved.

  There was only one door at penthouse level. Beside it was a wrought-iron table holding a pot with an orchid in it. Bea checked. The flower was artificial but could pass for real. A stained-glass window offered a view of a busy street many floors below.

  Bea put her magnifying glass away and rang the doorbell.

  A vision in peaches and cream opened the door. ‘Mrs Abbot? I’ve been looking forward to meeting you so much, though not, of course, under such difficult circumstances. Is my daughter ill? I have been out of my mind with worry about her. Do put me out of my misery.’

  Gush, gush, thought Bea. But found herself smiling, for Lady Ossett was quite charming, looking hardly a day older than her twenty-something daughter. Petite and sweet.

  And, Bea reminded herself, lethal. Remember, ‘My mother is a cow!’

  ‘Maggie’s quite well but couldn’t come this morning. She asked me to make her apologies.’

  ‘Oh no! Oh, this is terrible. I was relying on her to . . . But please, do come in.’ With a gust of teasing, expensive perfume, the vision ushered Bea into a spacious, cream-carpeted hall with archways leading off in different directions. Bea noted a telephone table, carved oak chair and a number of doors, one of which the vision opened to reveal a clothes cupboard with lots of space at one side. Had the gap been caused by the removal of Lucas’s clothes?

  A vacuum cleaner whined somewhere nearby. A cleaner at work?

  ‘My dear, ugly duckling of a daughter! She is the light of my life but I do worry about her, as I am sure you must do, having taken her under your wing, quite too charitable of you considering all the trouble she causes. Do hang your coat in here; my! How tall you are! I can never reach that peg, but my dear husband insists that . . .’

  Here she applied a tiny handkerchief to the corner of her eyes. There was a huge diamond on her ring finger, and the hankie was lace-edged. Bea smoothed out a smile. Diamonds and lace; typical.

  Lady Ossett led the way into one of the most stunning living rooms Bea had ever seen. It was huge, filled with light from windows on two sides, adding to the impression the building gave of being a luxury liner at sea. The room was furnished in a mixture of art deco and modern taste, with glass and steel and cream leather on areas of silk carpet in pastel colours. Very Homes & Gardens.

  Had Lady O furnished it herself? Possibly. If so, then she was a very clever woman and not an ordinary cow. Or perhaps she’d employed a top designer to create a fitting background for her beauty?

  There were modern lithos between fluted uplighters on the walls, and one striking portrait above a long settee. Everything was dust-free, vacuumed and polished.

  Through French windows at the far end of the room, Bea glimpsed a prettily arranged terrace garden, decorated with huge pots, containing palms, and a water feature. The garden furniture had, very sensibly, been hooded for the winter. The view of the London skyline was amazing, even on this gloomy day. Central heating ticked.

  Lady O waved Bea to a low-slung chair and seated herself behind a glass-topped coffee table, on which reposed today’s paper and a lacquered, Chinese style tray holding a small cafetière and a gold-rimmed cup and saucer. One cup only. A silver bowl held lumps of sugar, with a pair of tongs laid on top.

  Sugar tongs? When had Bea last seen those in use? Amazing!

  ‘Coffee?’ The offer was made in perfunctory fashion and was not meant to be accepted.

  Bea declined.

  The vision said, ‘It really is too bad of Maggie to let me down like this. I shall give her such a scold when I see her! So, tell me; why the delay?’

  ‘I’m afraid work intervened. The client threatened to sue if Maggie didn’t complete the job she was doing for him.’

  Lady Ossett looked as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether to be annoyed or indulgent. Indulgence won, by a narrow margin. ‘Oh dear. The scrapes that child gets herself into. However much is it going to cost me to get her out of this one, I wonder!’

  Bea said, ‘Tens of thousands, I should think.’

  ‘Mm?’ The teeniest of frowns disturbed the bland forehead. Botox? Undoubtedly. Lady O lifted her cup to her lips. ‘She does so exaggerate. Helping a neighbour out with some housework or typing up a bill or two; that doesn’t sound very important to me. Surely you can find someone else in the agency to take on her jobs?’

  Bea took a deep breath. Had Maggie never made it clear to her mother exactly what work she was doing? Or had she tried, and her mother not listened? The latter, most likely. Time to disabuse the little lady of her delusions. ‘A good project manager is worth her weight, and Maggie has a raft of contracts to fulf
il.’

  Lady O repeated the word, soundlessly. ‘Project . . .?’

  Bea put the boot in. ‘You could do far worse than employ her professionally if ever you wanted to change the layout here, or put in another bathroom, or whatever.’

  The cup in Lady O’s hand rattled as she replaced it on its saucer. ‘Maggie is working as a . . .? My Maggie?’

  ‘Your ugly duckling is quite some businesswoman. I must congratulate you. She rents an office from me nowadays and has had to take on a part-time accountant and a secretary to help her keep the books straight. You know how particular the tax man can be if the accounts are not well kept.’

  The wide blue eyes lost their focus. The finely-chiselled nose took on a pinched look. The make-up was too good to allow her to go pale, but the cords stood out on her neck as the lady took in what Bea had said.

  ‘You mean that she’s refusing to help me in my hour of need?’

  Bea tried to work out what was happening to Lady O. Was she truly in shock? Did she really have cause for alarm? ‘She can’t abandon her contracted jobs without risking some nasty court cases. She did wonder if she could pass the work on to another firm, but—’

  Lady O stood up in one abrupt movement. Ungraceful, even. ‘Excuse me for a moment. I must have a word with my cleaner. You’ll have some coffee, won’t you?’

  Had she forgotten that Bea had declined coffee?

  Lady Ossett left the room by an inner door. The whine of the vacuum cleaner increased, and then stopped.

  So the lady really is afraid. Maggie said she was, but I didn’t believe it. Whatever is going on here?

  Bea looked around her. Next to the lacquered tray on the table, an iPhone sat on top of today’s Times, open and folded to a crossword which had been more than half completed in a fine blue biro. Beneath that was a paper whose colour gave away its title: the Financial Times. Perhaps Lucas had placed an order for these papers, and Lady O hadn’t yet got round to cancelling it? What would her own reading be? Vogue? Hello magazine? The Daily Mail?