False Alarm Page 22

  ‘No!’ Bea guessed what was coming.

  Carmela passed her tongue over her lips. ‘It could, you know. He was looking for something in his albums—’

  ‘I see what you’re getting at. If you wanted to twist things, you could tell the police that he’d promised to look out some cutting or other for me to see. He was annoyed with himself, said he’d misplaced it somewhere.’

  ‘Well?’ Carmela watched Bea for her reaction. ‘He was reaching for something from that high shelf and pulled an old typewriter down on top of himself. Misadventure.’

  Bea felt acid burn in her throat. ‘You really think this can be brushed under the carpet? Of course Sir Lucas would prefer it. He doesn’t want any bad press. But does his patronage mean so much to you that you’d write off Harvey’s death as an accident?’

  ‘I could ask you the same question; how much does it mean to you?’

  Bea stiffened. ‘I’ve passed the point of no return. I wouldn’t give Sir Lucas the time of day.’

  Carmela’s mouth distorted into an attempt at a smile. She looked down at the remains of Harvey lying on his back on the floor. One blue eye stared back at her. The other had gone. ‘I liked Harvey. He amused me. But if push comes to shove . . . I don’t know . . . I really don’t.’

  Bea turned away. ‘Have you got a mobile phone on you? I could use mine, but the call will come better from you, as you’re a tenant and I’m only a visitor.’

  ‘I’ll phone for an ambulance from my flat. Coming?’

  Bea rubbed her forehead, trying to think straight. ‘I think it’s best if you do it by yourself. We can’t use the balcony because we need to preserve the evidence of the footprints as much as we can. I’m afraid the snow is continuing to erase them, but it would be best if no one else uses the fire escape till the police have seen everything that is to be seen. Suppose you go out by Harvey’s front door, touching as little as you can on the way? We’ll send Maggie back upstairs; no need for her to stay. You can let the ambulance men into the building when they arrive, and I’ll stay here to make sure no one else disturbs what’s left of him.’

  ‘Poor Harvey,’ said Carmela. ‘What a wretched business.’

  ‘She’s got to be stopped.’

  Carmela winced, and then recovered. ‘I don’t know what you mean. It was a tragic accident.’

  Sunday evening

  Bea dragged herself up the steps to her front door and inserted her key into the lock. All she could think about was throwing off her coat, sinking into the settee with a cup of something hot, and going to bed. She was feeling a mite queasy. Perhaps a cup of hot water or an indigestion tablet might be a good idea.

  It was going to take some time for her to erase the image of Harvey’s body from her memory. The ambulance men had come quickly enough. The doctor. A policeman. Carmela had been suave and persuasive. Maggie hadn’t had anything to say. Bea had tried to raise doubts about the manner of Harvey’s death. And failed.

  Harvey’s death was to be tidied away. Cut and dried. Misadventure. The building would probably be rechristened Accident Alley.

  Bea was tired to her very bones.

  The hall light was on. Odd. It was dark by the time she’d left the flats. Oliver and Maggie were staying overnight with Lady Ossett, so who . . .?

  ‘Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for ages.’

  Her beloved son, Max. ‘Sorry, Max. A tiring day.’

  The cat Winston stalked the hall, weaving backwards and forwards, yowling. He was hungry. Max wouldn’t have thought of feeding him, of course.

  ‘Just a minute, Max. Let me feed the cat and then I’ll attend to you. Phew! What a day.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve been out enjoying yourself, as usual.’ He followed her into the kitchen, looking at his watch. ‘You’ve got ten minutes before the cab comes. We mustn’t be late. Our reservation is for eight, and they won’t keep the table.’

  She scooped some food into a dish for Winston and let herself down on to a stool, still wearing her coat. She lifted one foot to inspect the heel of her boot. Yes, ruined, as she’d thought. ‘Dear Max, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t you ever listen to your phone messages?’

  ‘I’ve been out all day, and my new mobile got smashed. You want to take me out to supper, is that it?’

  He exhaled. ‘Not just “take you to supper”. This is important, Mother. I’ve booked us into the very latest restaurant. Our guests are Benton, the new managing director of Holland & Butcher, and his wife, whose name I forget. This will cement our relationship in the best possible way, but you turn up looking like . . . Forgive me, Mother, but you are not exactly looking your best at the moment.’

  She stared at him and through him. The image of Harvey’s ruined face flashed across her eyes and disappeared. She said, ‘Benton. Yes, I remember. He’s the man who’s going to replace their Mr Butcher, who turned out to be both inefficient and a scumbag. You’d think they’d drop his name from the firm, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Mother, will you listen to yourself? Of course they’re dropping his name. Benton has been appointed managing director in his place, and tonight we’re going to meet up with him and his wife and get better acquainted. This is important.’ He smiled. Fatly.

  Bea thought about throwing a tantrum. She thought about saying she had palpitations and needed to be whisked off to the hospital. She seriously considered knocking him out with something . . .

  There didn’t seem to be an ancient typewriter to hand for her to use as a weapon. Oh, poor Harvey . . .

  Max looked at his watch. ‘This evening has taken quite some arranging, synchronizing our diaries and all that. Now, I want you to pay extra attention to his wife. She’s a director and has shares in the company. Not that she attends meetings or even goes out much, but Benton insisted that he bring her along because she’s the only daughter of the old man, of Mr Holland himself. It’s obviously a good idea for you to get to know her, put her at her ease. You can do that, can’t you?’

  A director. Shares in the company. Doesn’t attend meetings. Daughter of that Grand Old Man, Mr Butcher, who was generally considered to be well past his sell-by date. What was going on here?

  Her brain simply wasn’t responding to the usual stimuli. Too tired. And her stomach was more than a little queasy.

  Max had gone to a lot of trouble to arrange this evening, and she didn’t like to disappoint him, but . . . she wasn’t sure she could even rise from the stool, never mind get herself ready to go out and be sociable.

  On the other hand, she’d been shilly-shallying about making some kind of arrangement with Holland and Butcher for ages, and it was only right that she gave them her decision sooner rather than later. She hadn’t been able to come up with any valid reason to refuse a closer arrangement with them apart from a ripple of unease about the way in which old man Holland ran the firm, and surely safeguards could be built in to prevent any repetition of what had happened before? Possibly she was being overcautious.

  She told herself that Max had put in a lot of work on this project, so she should at least find out exactly how everyone saw the matter proceeding. He was right, and there was a good case to be made out for a meeting. If she found Benton to be sensible and trustworthy, she’d feel better about the whole thing.

  She managed to get herself off the stool. Good girl! See, you can do it if you put your mind to it! To shower or not to shower? That is the question. What should she wear . . . the new black with the jet embroidery on the shoulders?

  She had to take off the remains of the day. No, that wasn’t right. She had to take off the remains of the day’s make-up, applied that morning, so long ago. A decade ago. Before Harvey. Before defeat.

  ‘Fifteen minutes,’ she said, and made her way towards the stairs.

  Bea recognized the restaurant. She might have known it. CJ had brought her here . . . when? Surely it wasn’t just last night, was it?

  M
ax looked around, rubbing his hands. ‘The latest thing. Had the dickens of a job to get a table. Ah, there’s Benton and his wife, waiting for us. So sorry we’re late, Benton. My mother likes to take her time getting her public face on.’

  Bea fixed a smile on her face. ‘Delighted,’ she said, air-kissing Benton’s wife, whose name, it appeared, was Dilys.

  ‘Dilys has the same problem,’ said Benton, with a loud laugh.

  Bea knew that it wasn’t logical to dislike a man because of the way he laughed, but there it was; a factor in the equation. If Max knew what she was thinking, he’d lift his eyes to the heavens and say it was just like a woman to think such things important. What he didn’t realize was that if you didn’t enjoy the company of a man, you’d be foolish to get into bed with him. Sorry; she meant ‘into a relationship with him’.

  Dilys was younger than her husband, puffy around the face, wearing a ruffled black dress which must have cost a penny or two but which did nothing for her plump figure. She was stiff with shyness. A nice girl, thought Bea. Perhaps a little intimidated by her husband and the surroundings?

  ‘Champagne all round?’ said Max, signalling to the waiter.

  Bea’s stomach rebelled. ‘Not for me.’ She pushed back her fatigue and set herself to put the girl at her ease.

  Max and Benton got on like anything, dropping their voices to communicate with one another, and then roaring with laughter. Telling naughty jokes? No, talking about a PR firm they liked the look of, which they might approach to redesign the logo for their merged business. Excluding her, who’d been deputed to amuse the child-wife? Hm.

  Small talk. ‘Tell me, Dilys; how many children do you have?’

  Dilys spoke about her young family in a soft, breathy voice. Bea encouraged her to do so. It meant she hadn’t to make too much of an effort herself. Her stomach was still acting up.

  They transferred to a table in the dining room, where the seating was arranged by Max. He and Benton sat side by side: ‘So that our two lovely women can get to know one another.’

  Bea told herself she’d feel better when she had some food inside her. There were breadsticks on the table.

  Sticks. Sticks and stones may break my bones. Kamran’s daughter had seen the caretaker pushed over the edge by a stick. Lavinia had had a stick. Who else?

  ‘My dear Mama!’ Max, pseudo solicitous. ‘I’ll choose for you, shall I?’

  ‘Anything but lobster. I like it, but it doesn’t like me. Something light, and perhaps some sparkling mineral water.’

  ‘No, no. The champagne will buck you up nicely. Waiter! Another bottle of champagne!’ He beckoned the wine waiter. ‘On this auspicious occasion . . .’

  Max and Benton laughed, leaning towards one another. Enjoying themselves. We two, we happy band of brothers . . . sharing out the spoils they anticipated would come from the merger.

  Fatigue kept Bea quiet.

  Kamran’s family were in the world, but protected from it. Hidden, almost. And wanted to remain that way. They weren’t going to rock the boat by screaming ‘murder’.

  Dilys was talking about her youngest son’s chickenpox, which . . .

  Bea tuned Dilys out, watching Max and Benton decide together on what they should eat and drink. More champagne came. She sipped some and felt marginally better.

  Max was in charge, of course. He would be paying the bill. He was in his element as the host, the fixer, the influential director.

  She accepted a plateful of a fishy dish whose ingredients she didn’t immediately recognize. Not lobster, obviously. The sauce was divine.

  ‘Dilys, my husband says you’re a director of Holland and Butcher?’

  ‘Why, yes.’ She dimpled. She must have been an attractive girl in her late teens, though now, sadly, was beginning to look middle-aged before her time. ‘Pa is the chair – Mr Holland, you know? – and I always meant to go into the firm when I finished at college. I used to help out in the office in the holidays sometimes, and he made me a director when I turned twenty. Only then I got married and started having babies so I don’t really have time for all that any more.’

  ‘You attend the meetings?’

  ‘No, but I give Benton my proxy vote, of course.’

  ‘You still draw a director’s salary?’

  A nod. ‘It’s a great help with the children’s school fees.’ Not even a blush when she made the admission.

  Bea sighed to herself. Yes, that was how it worked. The board of directors of some companies still had non-working directors who drew a salary. Max would be in good company if this merger came about.

  The fishy dishes were removed, to be replaced with lamb noisettes. At least, that’s what they looked like, though they tasted of . . . She wasn’t quite sure what they tasted of, and she wasn’t sure she liked it.

  A long shot. ‘Tell me, Dilys; are you any relation to Sir Lucas Ossett?’

  ‘He’s my godfather. Didn’t you know?’

  She was beginning to understand how Sir Lucas had gained information about a possible merger. Bea said, lightly, ‘He crops up everywhere. He married into the family of my protégée, Maggie, and has been talking about giving my adopted son a place in his organization. I’m told he can be a very generous patron.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Eagerly. ‘He gave me a block of shares in Vicori when I was twenty-one, and when I got married he put a whole heap of money into Holland and Butcher.’

  He did, did he? Put a good face on it. ‘Splendid. So one day in the future we might be connected twice over.’

  Dilys sparkled with pleasure. ‘Benton says that Max is all for it.’

  ‘I know he’s very keen on it,’ said Bea. ‘But it takes two to tango, or words to that effect.’ The champagne was making her feel light-headed.

  Dilys wasn’t stupid. She got the message, frowned and sent an appealing glance towards her husband, who refused to see it.

  Bea picked at the lamb dish and pushed the rest aside. The two men were deep in discussion about finding premises for new offices. New offices for whom? Ah, for the joint company which would be called – wait for it! – Holland and Abbot. Over her dead body.

  She wondered if Evonne and Connor would turn up on Wednesday, looking for jobs. Fifty fifty, she thought.

  Benton had been imbibing champagne at quite a rate. His colour had risen. ‘Well, are you two girls enjoying yourselves?’

  Dilys sent an agonized look to him. ‘Don’t you think we should change places so that you can talk to Mrs Abbot?’

  Good for Dilys, thought Bea. You’re not as silly as your husband tries to make out. ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Bea out loud. ‘After all, we’re not here to talk business tonight, are we, Benton? Some time soon, perhaps in the New Year, once we’ve all recovered from the festivities and my solicitor is back from his holidays, I shall have time to look at the paperwork you’ve sent me. Did I tell you he’s off on a cruise? My solicitor, I mean. I can hardly believe it. He always said he could get seasick in a punt on the river.’

  Silence. The men looked at her in shock.

  ‘Oh, but surely . . .’ That was Benton.

  Max’s colour had risen, too. ‘Mother!’

  She didn’t want to show him up before his guests, but this had to stop. ‘Don’t you “Mother” me,’ said Bea. ‘I am not in my dotage, and I’m perfectly capable of choosing what I want to eat for dessert. Did I see some meringues on the dessert trolley? I love meringue but don’t often indulge. I like almost anything but sago pudding.’ She could hear her voice rising. Too much champagne, too much death. She was feeling rather peculiar. She really ought not to have come out this evening.

  Dilys tried to follow Bea’s example. Her voice cracked, but she managed to say, ‘I’d love some pavlova, if they’ve got any. It’s something I never have at home.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Bea. She wondered who would deal with the defrosting meal for one which Harvey had left out on his kitchen worktop. She also wondered who Carmela had invited to
join her for supper.

  She said, ‘I’m glad it’s stopped snowing. I’ve ruined two perfectly good pairs of boots over the last few days. Perhaps I shall have to resort to wellington boots if I go out tomorrow.’ The next time she went up that fire escape it would be in the clunkiest of her shoes with the thickest of heels. If ever.

  Dilys tried to smile. ‘My youngest has got some wellies with pink flowers on them. She wants an umbrella with ladybirds on, too. I’m afraid her taste is for the brightly coloured.’

  ‘My dear, I warm to her. The sooner she goes to school, the sooner you can get back to work with Holland and Butcher, right?’

  ‘Yes, but . . . I don’t think . . .’ She looked to Benton for help.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you’d be a voice for common-sense,’ said Bea, aware that Benton was looking horrified. ‘It’s sadly lacking in many boardrooms today, don’t you think?’

  Max had turned puce. ‘Mother!’

  The dear boy had bitten off more than he could chew, hadn’t he? ‘Dear Max, you’d better not have a dessert. So fattening, and you know your dear wife worries about you putting on weight.’

  Did Dilys giggle? It was a very small giggle, but it was definitely there. Benton looked daggers at his wife. Benton didn’t understand what was happening. He was out of his depth. Good. No need to say anything else. No need for a row in public. Max had understood what she’d said. Now perhaps they could all go home and get some sleep.

  Bea felt most strange but couldn’t think why. She’d only had one glass of champagne, and two courses, of fish and meat. Not lobster. No, no. Pray there hadn’t been lobster in the sauce! But she recognized the symptoms only too well.

  ‘Time to go beddy-byes,’ said Bea, helping herself to her feet by leaning on the table. ‘Waiter, was there lobster in the first course?’

  ‘I don’t think so, madam. Shall I enquire?’

  ‘Mother, we haven’t had our coffee, yet.’

  She shook her head at him. ‘Sorry, everyone. Got to make my excuses.’ Where was the ladies’ room? Ah. Yes. There. Across the room. Could she make it in time?