False Picture Page 24

  Bea picked on a flaw. ‘How would Liam get hold of a key to the flat above?’

  ‘Mastermind lives in the flat above, that’s how.’

  Bea was dubious. ‘We’ll suggest that to the police tomorrow. Can you make your own way back? Or shall I call a taxi for you? On the house, naturally.’

  ‘I’ll pick up a taxi on the way.’ He left, closing the front door softly behind him. Bea poured away the pot of tea he’d made earlier, and made another. There was milk in the fridge, and not much else. She carried a mug of tea in to Velma, set it down at her elbow, and waited for her to finish her phone call.

  Velma pushed the tea aside. ‘I’m not an invalid.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ said Bea. ‘Have you found his will yet?’

  Velma pointed to an envelope on her desk. ‘Mutually helpful. He to me, and I to him. All to one another.’

  ‘Which proves he really loved you, Velma.’

  ‘And pigs might fly.’

  ‘Nothing for the prodigal son?’

  ‘His Rolex. It’s one he bought for himself years ago. It’s at the hospital still – if no one’s pinched it. I couldn’t give a toss. Anyway, it’s not likely that Philip’s going to come out of the woodwork now to claim it. I think he must be dead, too.’

  Could Philip also be dead? It was an alarming thought, but there was a lot to be said for the reasoning behind it. If so, the Millais would probably never be recovered, and Philip would go down in history as the man who killed his godmother.

  Bea didn’t like the hard voice her friend was using. How to divert her? Could it be done by turning her mind to different tasks? Taking them at different speeds? If only Velma would break down and cry.

  Bea said, ‘I expect you could do with a break from the paperwork. Shall I help you change the bed? You won’t want to sleep in the same sheets that Sandy used.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Velma went over to the mirror, exclaimed at the sight of her dishevelled hair, and reached for her handbag to find a comb. She sang to herself, ‘I’m going to wash that man right out of my hair.’ She smiled at her image in the mirror. ‘Am I on a roll, or am I on a roll?’ She was strung up so tightly she almost twanged. ‘I’m going to wash that man right out of my hair …’

  She led the way up the stairs.

  Rafael sipped his wine, trying to absorb what Charlotte had told him. He’d treated her to a dish of lasagne and a couple of glasses of wine at a local bistro, and his reward had been bad news.

  His voice cracked with the effort of keeping it steady. ‘What an adventure! You say you only got back safely because this woman – what’s her name, Abbot? – substituted bottles of water for the stolen goods and brought them back with her to London?’

  Rage built up inside him. How dare this woman interfere with his plans! An ice-cold thought dropped into his mind; Van was going to be furious!

  Charlotte drank more wine, giggling. ‘I think I’m just a little bit tipsy. It’s like it all happened to someone else. Last night we were in Bruges at this weird restaurant where they cook dear little bunny rabbits to eat, though I didn’t have any, of course. Then I was poorly in the night and when we got back Mrs Abbot insisted I stay at her place, though I really didn’t want to much, because she’s such a cow!’

  He poured more wine into her glass. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘That’s it, I think. Oh, Maggie found Zander in hospital somewhere, except that it may not be him after all. Hit and run? Badly hurt, anyway. Not fully with it’ – she tapped her temple – ‘you know?’

  Zander was still alive? Another blow. Rafael wanted to hit someone but forced himself to sound concerned. ‘I thought he’d moved away. You’re sure?’

  ‘Mm. It’s upset me ever so much. First Philip disappears, then Liam and now Zander. However am I going to pay the rent next week?’

  Rafael decided that Zander could wait. He was in hospital, might never come out. Perhaps Rafael would pay him a visit to make sure he never did. Meantime, he tipped the last of the wine into Charlotte’s glass. ‘This Mrs Abbot; does she live at the address where I picked you up? What’s she like?’

  Charlotte was beginning to slur her words. ‘She’s a blonde of sorts. It’s probably dyed. She’s really old and quite horrible, not at all sympathetic. Not like you.’ She reached out to caress his hand. ‘I thought you didn’t like me. But you do really, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do. What has this woman done with the things she brought back? Put them in a safe?’

  ‘How should I know?’ She rolled her eyes at him. ‘Shall we go on somewhere quiet?’

  He consulted his watch, running through various scenarios in his mind. ‘What time do you have to get back?’

  ‘Any time. Maggie said she’d wait up for me.’

  Rage boiled up inside him, and all the time the silly fool was grinning at him, pawing him … he wanted to strike her hand away, but … no, not yet. ‘Why don’t you ring Maggie, tell her you might be late? That you’re still out with your friend from the library. You did tell her that I worked in the library, didn’t you? You didn’t give her my name or anything? Good. It’s our little secret, isn’t it? Who else beside Maggie lives at Mrs Abbot’s?’

  ‘There’s Oliver, but he’s out this evening, I think. Student. Looks like a schoolboy still.’ Charlotte got out her phone and squinted at it, mouthing the numbers as she pressed the buttons.

  Rafael got out some cash, deciding against using his credit card to pay the bill. Much better not to leave any traces of himself at the restaurant.

  ‘Is that you, Maggie? I’m out with my friend still.’ She giggled, rolling eyes at Rafael. ‘Yes, it’s the one from the library. You didn’t expect me back early, did you? … oh, that’s all right then. I might … if I’m lucky … I might just stay out very, very late, if you know what I mean.’ She laughed, too long, too loudly, and cut off her call.

  She was so coy, it made him grind his teeth. But he was used to hiding his feelings. He smiled and patted her hand.

  She said, ‘Maggie’s all alone, poor thing. Got no one to take her out. But I suppose Oliver will be back soon. Mrs Abbot’s staying over at her friend’s house. I hope she’s going to be understanding about the rent.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Mrs Weston. She’s our landlady, you know? Philip’s stepmother.’

  His nostrils flared. So Mrs Abbot had a connection to Philip at the Weston house? Was visiting it tonight? Well, well! Perhaps luck was running his way again. He could kill two birds with one stone; no, three. He was sure Philip had taken refuge there, and Philip needed to be taught a lesson and yield up the Millais. Then there were his stepmother’s diamonds to consider and now … the interfering Mrs Abbot was there as well. He wanted words with Mrs Abbot. More than words. He wanted what she’d taken of his.

  Three against one? He hesitated for a moment, but decided the odds were still in his favour, if he showed them his knife. He’d been carrying a knife since he was in his teens, in case anyone thought his small stature made him an easy target.

  He was annoyed with himself about Zander. He must have aimed a trifle too low. But women – easy. He only had to press his knife into a woman’s breast and they let him have whatever he wanted. Philip? Well, Philip was no threat to man or beast.

  First, he must get rid of this tiresome girl with her clack-clacking tongue. He couldn’t let her run around, telling her story to all and sundry, could he? As she got up from the table she clutched his arm, pretending to be even more drunk than she really was. She repulsed him.

  She swayed and giggled even more when they got outside into the open air. ‘Where shall we go now?’

  ‘Your flat. With the boys gone, it’ll be quiet. No interruptions.’

  She clung to his arm, tottering along beside him. When he’d killed before, it had been in the way of business. This was the first time he’d really enjoy it.

  Eighteen

  Tuesday late evening

  Bea heard
the front doorbell as she was taking a bundle of bedlinen down the stairs, so she called back up to Velma, ‘I’ll get it.’ It would be some charity caller, or a neighbour who’d taken in a parcel, perhaps.

  Maybe it was Oliver, returning for some reason. She remembered that he’d cut the alarm off. She must remember to turn it back on. There was no reason to anticipate trouble until tomorrow, when Mr Van would discover how he’d been tricked.

  She switched on the lights in the hall and, still carrying the bedlinen, opened the door.

  A nice-looking young man stood there. Smiling, diffident. Smaller than her and not at all threatening. ‘Is Philip in? I’m a friend of his.’

  ‘Are you? Oh. Well, I’m sorry, but he’s not.’

  He pushed at the door, not aggressively, but moving it inwards. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Weston. I know Philip’s been a naughty boy, but I really am a friend of his and need to speak to him, urgently. I owe him some money.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not …’ Bea glanced back up the stairs. ‘And Philip’s not here. Nobody’s seen him for ages.’

  ‘Oh, but …’ He frowned, puzzled. ‘He rang me, told me he’d taken refuge here. Somewhere at the back of the house? In the staff quarters? He asked me to bring him some money round. Which I have.’ He smiled, the open, blue-eyed, honest smile that had taken in many an older and wiser person.

  He pushed at the door and Bea gave way, confused. Might Philip really be hiding out somewhere in the house? No! It wasn’t possible. And yet, it was a big house with a top floor which was never used and a flatlet at the side for a live-in help.

  Bea dumped her armful of bedclothes. ‘Look, as far as I know, he’s not here but if you’d like to hang on a minute, I’ll check.’

  She started back up the stairs, only to find he was close on her heels. Tail-gating, you’d call it if you were in a car. She didn’t like it, and repeated, ‘Please stay in the hall, and I’ll get back to you.’

  His eyes were on her hands. A wedding ring, but no diamonds. This was annoying. He’d understood that Philip’s stepmother always wore a couple of good diamond rings. He stayed where he was, halfway up the stairs, till she’d reached the landing. And then set off after her.

  Velma came out of the master bedroom, flapping open a laundered pillowcase. ‘Who was that, Bea?’ Her diamond rings flashed in the light from the chandelier hanging over the stairs.

  ‘A friend of Philip’s. Says Philip’s rung him to say he’s hiding out in the staff quarters here. Is that possible?’

  Rafael kept his smile, trying to work out which woman was Mrs Abbot, and which was Mrs Weston. He said, ‘I was round here the other day and heard water running at the back of the house, so he must be here. Also the milk and papers had been taken in. He rang and said he was short of money. I said I’d bring some round for him. I don’t like to think of him being in need.’

  Velma hesitated, but threw the pillowcase back into the bedroom and reached for a small bunch of keys hanging behind what looked like a Lowry doodle on the wall nearby. ‘You heard the cleaner, I suppose. And we’ve been back and forth, taking milk and papers in. But …’ A shrug. ‘I’ll check the flat to make sure, if you like.’

  She unlocked an inconspicuous door at the end of the corridor and went in, Bea and Rafael following on her heels. Again Rafael got too close to Bea and again she experienced a sense of discomfort.

  All three piled into a sizeable living room. No Philip.

  ‘No one here,’ said Velma, switching on lights. She crossed the living room to open doors and switch on lights in a bedroom, bathroom and small kitchen.

  Bea touched the top of the television set. No dust.

  Rafael pushed past her to check on the rooms Velma had looked into. What a rude young man!

  Velma jingled her keys. ‘We haven’t had any live-in help for some time. The cleaner comes in every now and again, otherwise …’ She shrugged. She began to turn off the lights in the empty rooms.

  Rafael was poised on his toes. Suddenly he didn’t look quite so harmless. ‘So where is he?’

  Velma gestured him to precede her out of the flat. ‘How should I know? As far as I’m concerned, he’s dead.’ Again her diamonds flashed in the light.

  ‘What about the top floor?’

  Velma stared at him, exasperated. ‘What about it? Junk rooms. My first husband’s train set. Philip’s not been here for a couple of months, and if he did come back now, I’d slam the door in his face.’

  Rafael moved rapidly down the corridor in the main part of the house, throwing bedroom doors open as he went. ‘Which is his room?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ said Velma. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to leave.’

  Bea followed behind him, closing the doors he’d flung open, thinking that she didn’t like this intrusion much, wondering where she’d left her mobile phone in the event that she had to call for help to get their visitor out.

  His demeanour had changed; he was no longer projecting the image of a nice, wholesome young man, but becoming harder, tougher by the second.

  As they reached the master bedroom, he caught hold of Bea’s arm and propelled her in. ‘What?’ She tried to pull herself free. He was a lot stronger than he looked, and kept her tightly clasped to his side.

  Velma had left all the lights burning in this room. The lower half of the tall sash windows gaped open on to the night, overlooking the garden. Some way off a neighbour was having a party; lights, booze, karaoke. What fun.

  It was no fun inside.

  Bea yelped, pricked by something sharp.

  Rafael said, ‘Let’s stop playing games, shall we, Mrs Abbot? You are Mrs Abbot, aren’t you? This is a knife that I’m holding, close to your breast. It’s something of a disappointment that Philip’s not here, Mrs Weston, but I’ll catch up with him later. Meanwhile, dear Mrs Abbot, I think you have something that belongs to me.’

  ‘Ouch!’ Bea tried not to wince as the knife bit into her.

  Velma stared. Her eyes were unfocused.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Rafael. ‘You keep your distance, Mrs Weston, or I’ll be forced to do something extremely nasty to your friend here. Oh, and in the meantime, you can take off those rings and throw them to me. As for you, Mrs Abbot,’ he smiled, bringing his head close to hers, whispering into her ear, ‘no one interferes in my business and lives. Understand?’

  ‘I haven’t got them,’ said Bea, through stiff lips. ‘I gave them to Mr Goldstone, the fine arts dealer, and he has already passed them on to the insurance people.’

  ‘You’re lying! Bitch!’ His fury increased.

  She jerked as his knife bit further into her breast. She tried to free her arms but he was holding her so closely that they might have been one person. Tears shot from her eyes. He didn’t believe her! ‘It’s the truth!’

  Velma was breathing hard. ‘I have never in my life …! How dare you! Let go my friend or I’ll …!’

  ‘You’ll what?’ He laughed.

  She lunged forward, long-nailed fingers reaching for his face, her mouth squared, screeching.

  He let Bea go to defend himself.

  Bea hooked her leg around one of his, catching him off balance.

  His knife flew wide.

  Nothing could stop Velma. Shrieking, she brushed aside his arm as if it was a matchstick. Still shrieking, she drew her fingernails down his cheeks.

  Bea caught at one of his flailing arms, but could not hold him.

  Velma got him by his hair and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat.

  He screamed, a thin, grating sound.

  Blood trickled down his cheeks.

  He stumbled towards the bed, but Velma did not let go. She swung him away from her. Yelling, his legs wobbling, disorientated, he teetered sideways and stumbled headlong out through the open window.

  Bea heard the soft thump as he hit the garden below.

  She closed her eyes, sobbing, hands holding her side where blood seeped through
her fingers.

  She remembered that the front door might still be on the latch, the alarm not set. She gasped out, ‘Front door. I’ll get it.’

  She tottered to the landing, looked at the flight of stairs and wondered if she could make it safely down to the hall. Forced herself to do so. Wondered if she were leaving a trail of blood. Couldn’t be bothered to look.

  Leaned against the front door, put the chain on, shot the dead bolt.

  Wondered if the man were dead. Hoped he was.

  There was no sound from upstairs. She must phone the police. If they’d killed the man … oh, dear.

  Her side hurt. Her top was sodden with blood. She picked up one of the pillowcases that she’d brought downstairs earlier and wadded it, holding it against her breast.

  ‘Velma, I’m going to ring the police.’

  No reply. Bea picked up the phone and hesitated. Why hadn’t Velma replied? Had the knifeman managed to wound her as well … perhaps even stabbed her fatally? No, surely the knife had flown wide?

  Bea put the receiver down and, panting, climbed the stairs, trying not to think of what she might find.

  Velma was half lying, half sitting on an upholstered chair near the open window. Her eyes were open, but unseeing. Bea touched her hand. No response. Velma was warm, she was breathing. Lightly, but she was breathing. Bea couldn’t see any blood.

  The open window nearby bothered her. Suppose the man hadn’t been killed, but was even now climbing up to the first floor again?

  She forced herself to look out, fearful of what she might see. A lifeless body, or a man climbing up towards her?

  The lights from the bedroom threw oblongs of brightness across the garden below. She squinched her eyes up, trying to see what lay below. Nothing. No body. No climber. He’d gone.