False Report Page 20

  ‘I should be promoted to manageress,’ said a woman with a permanently angry expression. ‘I’ve been here the longest and know the ropes.’

  This was the last of the women whom Bea wanted to get rid of. Bea nodded. ‘We are going to advertise the position, of course. I hope to be able to run interviews early next week, and any of you can then apply for the post. Meanwhile, Celia has kindly offered to step into the breach and will run the office until I can appoint someone on a permanent basis.’

  Bea opened the door to Maggie’s office and ushered Celia into the room. ‘Celia, will you come in, please? I’m sorry the top drawer of your desk is broken, but I’m sure you can get that fixed. Anna, will you turn the phones back on, please?’

  Celia was a pretty blonde, a softer version of Ianthe, of about the same age. She looked around the office with a pleasant expression on her face. ‘Afternoon, everyone. Most of you I know already, but I’m going to go round to each desk to make sure I know all your names and what you’re currently doing.’

  Bea continued to stand on guard, watching, while Celia went round each desk, introducing herself and checking that she had all the girls’ names correct. The phones came back on.

  Anna lifted her hand. ‘Call for you, Mrs Abbot. A Detective Inspector Durrell.’

  ‘Thank you, Anna. I’ll take it in my office.’

  Bea found Oliver there, busying himself at her computer. Well. Fine. She supposed. She tried to shift her brain back from office matters to what it was the inspector might want with her. Something about . . . a body in a van. Yes. She lifted the receiver. ‘Inspector? I trust you got to spend some time with your family yesterday.’

  ‘Thank you, yes. And you?’

  ‘I had a call yesterday afternoon from the woman who seems to be the brains behind the Badger Game, suggesting a meeting. She wanted to check my views on recent events, especially the fracas on Saturday night outside Jason’s café. She said she’d come to the conclusion that a third party is homing in on the gang, trying to knock them off one by one. She wanted me to confirm that Jeremy is definitely not to blame. Which I did.’

  ‘What does she look like?’

  ‘Middling in age. Middling height. Hard to tell because she was got up like an old lady with a Zimmer frame. I took a shot of her with my camera and made a tape recording of our conversation, though I don’t suppose either will be much use. Someone in that lot knows all about disguises. Someone who used to be an actor, perhaps?’

  ‘Interesting. I’ll call round later to fetch them.’

  ‘Hold on. There’s more. She confirmed that the man I saw being killed was the gang’s photographer. He is dead. She said they’d torched the van and left him in it. Do you want to look into that? A white van, no markings.’

  ‘How many of those are there around? A thousand, say? Licence number?’

  ‘Sorry. Dirtied.’

  ‘Large, medium or small?’

  ‘Mother Bear, rather than Baby or Daddy.’

  A sound like a sneeze came over the phone. ‘Is there anything else you can remember about it?’

  ‘Well . . . one of Jeremy’s shoes might be inside it. He lost it in his escape from the van, so it might perhaps still be there. I don’t suppose that’s much use if the van’s been torched.’

  A sigh. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I asked my ex-husband if he would break confidence and give you the names of possible victims that he’d heard about. He’s doubtful. He says he was told these stories in confidence. From what I’ve seen and heard of his sources, the names wouldn’t help you because the people concerned will deny everything.’ Particularly, she thought, in the case of those wanting to get into Parliament or the House of Lords. Sir Thomas. Sir Charles.

  ‘I disagree. It would be helpful even to know the sort of people targeted by the gang. If they’re all upper crust, then the gang must have an insider giving them information about who to try.’

  ‘From what I’ve been able to gather they’re not upper crust, necessarily. Manufacturers, moneyed men. Men hungry for power and recognition. I don’t know how they’re selected. Perhaps Madam Brains is the secretary of an exclusive club, or attends business conferences in some capacity.’

  ‘Ask your ex again, will you? I’ll be round later on. Will you be in?’

  ‘Probably. Ring beforehand?’

  She put the phone down and remembered she ought to be taking Jeremy to see his wife . . . but surely Eunice would be out of the house and working today, wouldn’t she? They could wait till the evening to interview her. Anyway, he was still playing the keyboard upstairs; a march, it sounded like. Didn’t he ever give it a rest?

  Oliver pushed back his chair. ‘I’ve drafted two advertisements; one for manageress, the other for a part-timer to help Maggie. Have a look, see if they’re OK. Meanwhile, I need to get at the filing cabinets next door if we’re to review all the recent complaints. Is it safe to enter the lion’s den?’

  ‘Celia will tame the lions for us. Yes, go ahead.’ She checked the advertisements, shortened them, counted words. Yes, they’d do. She faxed them off to the newspapers.

  Celia rang through. ‘Mrs Abbot; can you take some phone calls for us? Being short-handed here . . .’

  ‘Of course, Celia. Switch them through.’

  Bea dealt with some routine telephone enquiries and interviewed a woman who said she was a cordon bleu cook, but whose references didn’t match that description. And then one whose references did.

  As soon as she was free, Oliver brought in a sheaf of files, frowning. ‘I’ve been trying to match up the complaints with the personnel files. I’ve found three youngsters so far who . . . Well, let’s put it this way. I don’t think Miss Brook would have sent them to any of our clients. Straight out of school. Two of them dropped out early. The handwriting on their application forms leaves a lot to be desired, and I’m not talking dyslexia. Miss Brook was in the habit of taking Polaroid photographs of applicants we’ve accepted on to our books, but I can only find a photo for one of them. There’s none for the other two.’

  Bea scanned the files. ‘I agree, their CVs are not exactly encouraging. One claims to have done some evening bar work, but only lasted a week. The other two don’t seem to have done anything except collect dole money. It’s good that they want to work, but they must accept they need training before we can use them.’

  ‘I’ll prepare a blacklist of those people we’re not going to use again, right?’

  ‘Can you look in our own personnel files, see if you can track down one particular woman . . . the name escapes me, but she was excellent. She had to leave – it’s maybe a couple of years ago – because her mother was ill and she wanted to look after her. I seem to remember she sent us a Christmas card which said she was hoping to return to work soon. I wonder if she could be induced to come back to us.’

  ‘If she’s in the system, I’ll find her. May I use your computer again?’

  She moved out of her chair to let him get in, and her phone rang again.

  ‘A call for you, Mrs Abbot. He wouldn’t give his name.’

  ‘Put it through.’

  She moved behind Oliver to watch as he accessed their records on the computer.

  ‘Mrs Abbot?’

  ‘Yes.’ Another complaint? She hoped not.

  ‘Don’t interfere.’

  What? She looked at the phone. What was that?

  ‘Mm?’ said Oliver.

  She put the phone down. ‘A male voice, deep. “Mrs Abbot. Don’t interfere.”’ Her heartbeat went into overdrive. She dialled 1471, only to be informed that the caller had withheld his number. Of course.

  Oh, this was all too much! First Ianthe, and then having to face the office staff, and now . . .

  Oliver swivelled round in his chair to look up at her. ‘Do you think . . .?’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t give a name.’ She got herself to the settee by the window and let herself down on to it. ‘Do you know something?
I’m fed up with this. I am being threatened with anonymous phone calls, just because I took Jeremy in. I could spit!’

  Oliver grinned. ‘Not like you. Spitting, I mean. Ah. I think I’ve found the woman who went off to nurse her mother. Home number, mother’s number. Which would you like?’

  Her phone rang. ‘Mrs Abbot, a call for you from a Mr Butcher.’

  Of Holland & Butcher? Had Ianthe got on to them already? No, no. Why should she? Was this the formal approach from the firm which had been hovering for some time? She took the receiver from Oliver. ‘Mrs Abbot speaking.’

  ‘My name’s Butcher, of Holland and Butcher. You have heard of us, perhaps?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I believe we have interests in common. May I suggest we meet to discuss how we view the world in general, and our own sector of it in particular? Perhaps you would care to come out here – we could send a car for you if you wish – and we could show you around and give you lunch.’

  Nicely put. An educated voice, warm and with a hint of humour. A good choice for a first approach. But.

  Bea thought quickly. If there were – or had been – any links between Ianthe and Holland & Butcher, it would be best to make it clear that as far as the Abbot Agency was concerned, Ianthe was now dead meat. ‘I’m afraid it’s not a good time for me to leave the office as I’ve just had to sack my manageress. Perhaps we could meet in a week or two when I’ve appointed someone else?’

  ‘My commiserations. Especially as you have a reputation for running a tight ship.’

  She hated people who talked about ‘running a tight ship’. What on earth did they mean by it, anyway? That they tied people to the mainmast and gave them forty lashes if they disobeyed orders? Deprived them of food and water for a fortnight?

  She said, ‘You may know her. She used to work for Croxtons. Her name’s Ianthe, and she is extremely efficient, in her own way.’

  ‘Ianthe? No, the name doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?’

  Yes, it should. Or, perhaps it shouldn’t? What, after all, did Mr Butcher have to do with someone who once worked at Croxtons? But – he ought surely to know the manageress of a firm they’d been associated with for a long time? ‘Oh? Well, she seemed to know you, though perhaps she was making that bit up.’

  ‘What?’ Startled. Annoyed. ‘How? Why?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Bea, putting honey into her voice. ‘My apologies. The lady in question is, perhaps, a little fanciful? You’ll have a good laugh when I tell you all about it. Yes, we should meet, but I can’t really afford to take a whole morning off to come out to you at the moment. How about you having lunch with me one day this week, here at my place in Kensington. Wednesday, at twelve noon, shall we say? Excellent.’

  She put the phone down and made a note in her diary.

  Oliver lifted an eyebrow.

  ‘Oliver, Mr Butcher wants to meet us. I’ll get a catering firm in to provide a light lunch for three on Wednesday. Can you arrange to stay till then?’

  Oliver grimaced. ‘So you mean to sell, then?’

  ‘Certainly not. But, if we can clean up our act here, I don’t see why we shouldn’t go into partnership with them, because, as you said, we can always do with a fresh supply of well-trained people, can’t we? Now, let’s have a look at some more of those complaints, before the phone rings again. No, first I’d better ring that woman who used to work for us. Where did you put those phone numbers?’

  SIXTEEN

  Monday afternoon

  Bea and Oliver worked steadily through the files, finding more complaints which were justified, and more personnel they would not wish to use again. He carried the names through to Celia, who put up a blacklist and kept it up to date. Bea made excuses to go into the main office every now and then, but everyone seemed to be working well enough . . . apart from one malcontent.

  Bea phoned the woman who’d left to nurse her mother. She was out, but returned the call later. She said that her mother had passed away six weeks before, and so she would very much like to return either part or full-time. Oliver managed to come up with the contact number for another girl who’d worked for them in the past. She said she was currently working with a firm that was relocating to the other side of London, so would be glad to hear of a job nearer home. Bea asked both to come in and have a chat on the morrow.

  Jeremy continued to provide background muzak, but moved on to playing something soft and soothing. Maggie went out on a job, locking her office behind her.

  Bea and Oliver had a scratch lunch of cold meats and a salad down in the office. Celia came in to report that everything was quiet on her front and the remaining girls working well, except for the one who aimed to be manageress, who was tossing her head and acting like a spoilt teenager.

  ‘I’ll have a word with her,’ said Bea, just as her phone rang yet again. This time it was the inspector, who’d arrived outside the house in his car and wanted a few minutes with her.

  ‘You go. We’ll cope,’ said Oliver.

  Celia asked, ‘Who’s that playing the piano? It isn’t the radio, is it?’

  ‘Someone who needs a minder,’ said Bea, turning her mind with difficulty from manpower to mayhem. ‘Come up and meet him when you’ve finished for the day.’

  Upstairs, Jeremy hadn’t stopped playing to have any lunch. He was tinkering around with Josie’s wistful song, again.

  Bea let the inspector in.

  He cocked his head. ‘Nice tune.’

  ‘That’s Jeremy, composing something in Josie’s memory. Come through into the sitting room, and we’ll see if we can get him to stop playing for a while.’

  Jeremy was wearing – oh dear! – his grey pyjamas and Maggie’s bunny slippers.

  His hair was unbrushed. The pile of manuscript paper by his piano had grown since Bea last saw it.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, and he smiled at them, unfocused.

  Bea sighed. Did he even know who he was taking to? ‘We’re fine, Jeremy. Don’t stop. We’ll go into the kitchen.’

  Once there, she put on the kettle. ‘I need caffeine. Chocolate. Time out. Life is getting just too much. Oh, I forgot to tell you, I’ve had a threatening phone call. A man, deep voice, telling me not to interfere. No name, of course. And yes, I did dial one-four-seven-one, but the number had been withheld.’

  ‘Valentine Dyall,’ said the inspector. ‘The Man in Black. The Mystery Man who used to introduce the Saturday night plays on radio.’

  ‘You’re too young to remember that.’

  ‘My father used to talk about him and imitate him, too. When he wanted to threaten us kids with dire consequences, he used to put on this special voice, deep down, and we knew we were in trouble.’

  Bea hadn’t thought she could laugh, but she did, and she felt all the better for it. ‘Yes. Well.’ She found her handbag and handed over her tape recorder and camera. ‘I’ll put the shots of the woman on my computer and send them to you, if you like, but as you can see, she’s made a good job of hiding what she really looks like.’

  ‘Ah. Mm. Interesting. We found your van, by the way. Once you’d pointed me in the right direction, I only had to ask, and hey presto, up came the report on the burning of your medium-sized white van, reported last night.’

  ‘It’s not my van.’

  ‘With your body in it.’

  ‘It’s not my body.’

  ‘True; it belonged to one John O’Dare, late of County Antrim and later still of various addresses in East London. He studied photography but wasn’t good enough to launch out on his own, or disciplined enough to work for others. He had a varying career working behind bars and in fast food places. Betted on the horses, drank a little too much, got into the occasional fight. Was arrested in a nightclub for carrying drugs but said they were recreational, and perhaps they were. He’s not been in trouble for a couple of years. Rest in Peace.’

  ‘How do you know so much?’

  ‘The torching was amateurishly done. Not enough gasoline was us
ed to make a really good funeral pyre. Also, some passing youths – who were probably up to no good, but we won’t quibble about that this time – saw the flames and acted with amazing promptitude and civic responsibility. They called the police, the fire brigade and the ambulance men. They probably also took photos on their mobiles and sent them to the local press as well. Mr O’Dare was still recognizable. Also, his prints were on file. Would you like to see a picture of him?’

  She shuddered. ‘Not if he’s been well roasted.’

  ‘A mug shot. Nothing to alarm, I assure you.’ He produced a photograph of a shaven-headed rat-face man.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, that’s him. Yuk. What a way to go. So that’s a dead end.’

  ‘Not quite. We have the names of some of his associates. Most are petty criminals, drunk and disorderly, petty theft, indecent exposure. But on that last charge, the one of carrying drugs, he was bailed by a man who gave his name as Philip James, screenwriter and actor.’

  ‘Would this be Mr Toupee?’

  ‘Here’s another photograph, this time from Spotlight, which is a sort of catalogue of actors.’

  She studied the picture. A man in his mid to late thirties, with fair hair receding from his temples. He was resting his chin on his hand and trying to look soulful. A pale skin, pudgy hands. Open-necked shirt, a hint of a gold bracelet on one wrist.

  ‘Failed actor,’ said the inspector. ‘Repertory. Tried to get into television. Some work as an extra in crowd scenes. He tried writing for the stage, and for radio. Got some one act plays put on, amateur nights only. When he posted bail he gave an address, but he’s moved on from there some time ago. No known offences.’

  ‘Not the criminal type.’ Bea held the photo up to the light. ‘Yes, it might well be Mr Toupee. I’d ask Maggie, but she’s out. We’ll ask Oliver in a minute. So what’s the link between John O’Dare and – what did you say his name was? – Philip something? Why would Philip post bail for O’Dare? Hah! You think they were already working together on their scam? O’Dare got out of line, got caught, and Philip came to his rescue?’