False Report Read online

  Oh, nonsense; she was getting paranoid.

  Still . . . she felt with her foot for the next step down, and the next. It might be wise to take shelter in the shadows until she knew for certain what was going on. The steps were gritty under her feet. She put out her hand to steady herself. The stone of the wall was gritty, too. The stench of the fire was all around her now, disguising the scent of the cigar.

  The front door opened above her, and she held her breath.

  She heard heavy footsteps climb the steps to the front door. Which meant . . .

  ‘Well?’ A man’s voice. Deep.

  ‘She took him off with her. I tried to follow but lost them in traffic.’

  Did she know that voice? She rather thought she did, but couldn’t place it. The front door shut.

  Her heart was going thump-thump.

  Miss Butt wouldn’t have let the man in. No way.

  So, Maggie must have done. Let me think. Maggie had talked about seeing if a friend would come round, or go out with her. Also, she’d wanted a pizza. It was possible she’d have phoned for one and trustingly opened the door when someone rang the bell – and it might not have been a pizza delivery man who called.

  But no: Maggie knew better than that. Or did she?

  Suppose Maggie had answered the door and he’d forced his way in? But then, what had he done with Maggie? And/or her friend?

  Bea pressed both hands to her head. Think, Bea, think!

  There were two of them in her house, with Ms Annie Butt. How had they found the woman? Answer: they must have followed Annie from her flat. She thought she’d shaken them off, but she hadn’t. Or perhaps they’d made a lucky guess and decided to check Bea out?

  What were they proposing to do with Madam Badger?

  That was simple; they were going to kill her, of course. Bea stifled hysteria. She did hope they weren’t going to use a knife again. It was so hard to get blood out of the upholstery – or the carpet.

  She told herself to keep calm. Think, woman! THINK! No, pray.

  Dear Lord above, help! There’s Oliver coming back, and Max, and I think I’m next on the list because I know too much. And so does Jeremy – and that’s why they’ve been after him. No, it’s not just that he knows too much, is it? He’s been elected scapegoat for everything, but that will only work if they can find him and kill him.

  If they can rig it that he commits suicide, then everyone will think he committed the murders after all – perhaps with an accomplice – and then committed suicide when the police started to close in on him. And the police investigation will end there.

  What am I to do? Time’s running out. Help!

  I must go up and stand in the street and stop Oliver and Max going back into the house. Yes, I can do that. But, what about Maggie?

  Somehow I’ve got to get her and her friend – if there is one – out.

  But first – breathe deeply – I must check that she’s not gone out for the evening.

  Bea let herself down to the bottom of the steps, to the small area outside the agency door where Maggie’s bay tree had once stood. She took out her mobile phone. Thank God for mobile phones.

  She switched it on but in her agitation couldn’t make out the numbers. Where were her reading glasses? In her handbag. She got them out. Hands trembling.

  Mobile phone battery may be running down. Too faint. Don’t fade out on me!

  Use the torch. Wind up the torch, which needs two hands, so put phone back into handbag while . . .

  Ah, in the light of the torch she could read the names she needed.

  Maggie’s mobile number. The phone rang and rang. No reply.

  Maggie always kept her phone switched on, even at night. Nothing short of death or major injury parted Maggie from her phone. So, she was not in a position to answer it, and the only explanation must be that the killer had taken it off her. Which meant that she must still be in the house. Maggie was an innocent bystander, as was her friend, but it would be stupid to hope the killer would spare them once they’d finished off Ms Butt . . . which they might already have done.

  Don’t panic!

  Try Oliver. Oliver would have his phone with him. He might still be driving around looking for a parking place and therefore wouldn’t pick up straight away. Oliver, pick up! No. She’d been switched to answerphone. Leave a message. What to say? Keep your voice low, Bea. Remember that the sitting room window above you is open.

  ‘Oliver, don’t come back to the house. I’m going to try to get everyone out. The door to the agency rooms is glowing with heat, but I think I can manage to put the fire out if I can only get in and find the other extinguisher.’

  Her hands were shaking. She’d promised Ms Butt that she wouldn’t call the police, and she hadn’t. Maybe it was stupid of her, but she’d given her word and she was stiff-necked that way.

  Oliver would surely use his head when he picked up the message. He’d think how stupid it was of Bea to try to fight a fire by herself, and he’d ring the Fire Brigade. Wouldn’t he?

  Max next. She fumbled the call. Made it. Max was on the phone. She left the same message. Turned the phone off.

  Right. She’d done what she could for her two men. What could she do for Maggie?

  In a careless moment the torch flew out of her hand and fell on the floor with a clunk!

  She froze. Would they hear that, inside the house?

  She bent down, trying to find it. Where had it gone? Oh, let it be. She took off her reading glasses and stowed them and her phone away.

  Right. Now, to find out where Maggie was and try to get her and her friend out of the house. She fished out her keys and unlocked the door into the agency rooms.

  Something was wrong. There were lights on in the main room.

  Surely she’d checked that they’d all been turned off that evening before they went out? Yes, she was sure she had. She’d double-checked that all the lights downstairs were off before she left . . . and now the overhead lights were on.

  All was quiet. The door leading into the cloakroom was ajar, and there was no light on inside that, but the door into her office was open and there was a light on there. Someone had definitely been in these rooms since she left.

  Moving as quietly as she could, she sidled through the main room to her office. It was empty. Her computer was dark. Nothing on her desk looked as if it had been disturbed.

  No Maggie; well, that was a relief . . . wasn’t it? The curtains at the French windows remained closely drawn, and the grille over the windows was as she’d left it, locked tight against the night outside.

  There were faint sounds of movement from above. A man shouting. Not a voice that she recognized. A woman keened.

  Maggie? Was Maggie upstairs and being tortured for some reason? The idea sent shivers down Bea’s back. She hesitated, her hand going to the phone; she could ring the police.

  No, she’d alerted Oliver and Max to a problem; they could do that for her. Meanwhile, her job was to locate Maggie and get her out of there.

  Bea stilled her breathing. She needed a weapon and didn’t know where to find one. If only Dahlia hadn’t taken the knife away with her! It had been a small knife; wickedly sharp. But small. Probably not much good against her current visitors. Two big strong men could easily have taken it off her.

  She must rely on native wit . . . and the fact that Oliver and Max would soon be back.

  Now, how to find Maggie? She turned off the light in her office, pulled back the curtains and unlocked the grille over the French windows. She didn’t want anyone who might be standing near the windows on the first floor to look out and see light streaming on to the garden, because that would alert them to the fact that someone had entered the agency rooms below.

  There was plenty of light spilling out from the windows of the kitchen and sitting room above, but in the spot where she stood right up against the house, it was dark. She felt for the first rung of the wrought iron staircase that climbed from the garden to the
first floor, set her hand against the brick of the wall at her side, and inched her way up.

  At the top of the stairs there was a balcony which gave access to both the kitchen and the sitting room.

  She stopped with her eyes at floor level, so that it would be difficult for anyone to see her if they chanced to look out. The kitchen was to her left. She looked into that first.

  The kitchen lights were on, but no . . . No one was there. No Maggie. She must be in the sitting room. Bea went down on her hands and knees and crawled across to the other window . . .

  And bumped into something. A carry-on case and handbag. Annie Butt’s? Why had she put them there? Out of sight. Hidden from view. Bea tried to follow Annie’s reasoning.

  Annie must have been alerted in some way to the arrival of the intruders – how on earth had they got in? Well, leaving that aside for the present – Annie, fearing the worst, had quickly thrust her belongings out through the French windows on to the staircase, tucking them in against the wall, out of sight of anyone standing inside the room. She was dressed in imitation of Bea. Might she try to pass herself off as Bea to the intruders? The presence of her handbag and case would have given the game away, so she’d thrust them out of sight. Yes. That sounded right.

  Loud voices came from the sitting room, and then the unmistakable sound of a slap. Who was the victim; Annie or Maggie?

  Why didn’t the cavalry come to the rescue?

  A nasty thought. Suppose the intruders had double-locked or even bolted the front door? How would the cavalry be able to get in?

  Keep calm, Bea. The most important thing was to make it easy for any possible rescuers to get back into the house, which meant she must make sure the front door was on the latch.

  Bea crawled back down the stairs . . . oh, her tights . . . never mind! She slipped back into her office, shutting and locking the grille behind her, and closing the curtains. All must seem to be as it had been before she returned, which meant she must put the overhead light on again. She stumbled across her office and turned it on.

  Bright. Too bright. Oh.

  She took out her bunch of keys again, went back through the main office, let herself out through the front door of the agency rooms, and with care trod the steps up to street level. She turned her key in the lock of the front door. Good; not double-locked nor bolted.

  She let herself into the hall, taking care to leave the door on the latch so that any rescue party could get in easily.

  Cigar smoke. How crass to smoke a cigar in someone else’s house. When a man smoked a cigar in the same room as you it smelled heavenly, but next day the stink . . . ugh! And it clung to the curtains and the upholstery like nobody’s business.

  The man she’d seen at the window came out of the sitting room to confront her. ‘About time, too. We were wondering if you’d got lost.’

  Tall, dark, broad-shouldered; handsome in a fleshy sort of way, and yes, smoking a good cigar. He projected barely contained anger. And excitement.

  She didn’t know him from Adam, but his silhouette resembled that of the man she seen kill O’Dare.

  She put outrage into her voice. ‘Who are you?’ said Bea. ‘And what are you doing in my house?’ She darted her eyes around. No Maggie. What did that mean? What had they done with her?

  ‘Ah, but is it your house, that’s what I’d like to know?’ He grasped her forearm and drew her into the sitting room.

  ‘How dare you!’ said Bea, trying to release her arm from his grip. ‘And why . . . Well, hello. What’s Mr Jason doing here?’

  The café owner was standing by the window, wearing leathers. So it was he who had come by motorbike? It fitted his personality. She’d wondered several times if he’d been playing both ends against the middle. His presence here indicated that he’d stopped playing piggy in the middle and was now on the Big Bad Wolf’s team.

  Bad, bad news.

  NINETEEN

  The man with the cigar shook her arm. ‘Jason, who is this?’

  ‘Let go of me!’ Bea cried out, for he was hurting her.

  ‘That’s the agency woman that took Jeremy in,’ said Mr Jason. ‘Mrs Abbot.’

  The man with the cigar swung Bea round to face the settee, where Ms Butt sat, composed and serene. Her face looked puffy. Had someone been hitting her? ‘Then who is this?’

  ‘I’m Bea Abbot,’ said Ms Butt. ‘And that woman is an impostor.’ Her voice sounded strange. Blood stained a corner of her mouth.

  ‘What!’ Bea was startled into a laugh. She darted her eyes around the room but Maggie was nowhere to be seen. Wherever could she be? God forbid; had they already killed her?

  No, please God, not that!

  She tried to wrench herself free, but the man held on to her. She could feel the power in his fingers. She could feel his anger, too.

  He swung her round to sit in a chair opposite Ms Butt. The woman was still pretending to be Bea. Not a bad idea, except that there were now two of them in the room, and one of them was about to be unmasked as an impostor.

  Time was running out. Bea risked a glance at the clock. How long since she’d phoned Oliver? How long was it going to take for him to act? Pray God he didn’t try to get into the house to deal with the ‘fire’ himself, because if so they were both going to die tonight.

  The man with the cigar snatched Bea’s handbag away from her and upended it on the coffee table. House keys. Credit cards, diary, a bank statement; all gave her name.

  ‘Finally, the truth. So this is the famous Mrs Abbot!’ He put his cigar down on the edge of the mantelpiece and advanced his face to within six inches of Bea’s nose, projecting violence. ‘I told you not to interfere, didn’t I? But now you have, I’m not inclined to dilly dally. Understood?’

  Bea forced herself not to wince. ‘What is it you want?’ Waste time, Bea. Every second counts.

  ‘First, where have you been? The lady opposite says you went out for a meal. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, I wanted something hot and all we’d got was cold stuffs.’

  He slapped her. ‘Tell the truth. You took our friend Jeremy Waite somewhere. Get on the phone. Get him back here, now.’

  ‘Can’t. Don’t know his new phone number.’

  He shook her. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He went home to his wife.’

  ‘Unlikely.’ He got out one of the latest phones and pressed buttons. ‘Eunice, you there? Has the little man returned to base? No. I didn’t think so. He’s gone missing, but we’ll get him, never fear.’

  So Eunice had been in on this all along? The two-faced, lying, humpbacked, crooked toad.

  The man switched off his phone and leaned over Bea again. ‘If you want to leave this room alive, you’re going to have to cooperate. Understand?’

  Bea remained silent. Praying. Please Lord, what next?

  He pulled up another chair and sat knee to knee with Bea. ‘My patience is running out. I don’t like hitting a woman, but I’m prepared to make an exception where my personal safety is concerned. Where is Jeremy Waite?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ This was the exact truth, as Piers had suggested going out for a drink and Jeremy had agreed. They could be anywhere, in any pub or restaurant in the neighbourhood.

  ‘Wrong answer. Jason, hold her still for me.’

  Strong hands took hold of Bea’s upper arms and held her back against her chair.

  The man with the cigar slapped her with his open palm. She felt her neck snap. He hit her again. And again. Again. She tried to fend off his blows. She tried to kick, but he was too close to her knees. She began to pray. Dear Lord, help! Do I tell them? No, because he’s still going to kill me!

  How much of this could she take?

  Mr Jason released her all of a sudden. ‘What was that?’

  The cigar man suspended operations.

  Jason looked out of the window. ‘Didn’t you hear that? The doorbell. You said you were expecting someone else?’

  Not Max or Oliver; pray not eit
her of them. Fire Brigade, please!

  ‘Let me see.’ The man abandoned his position in front of Bea and strode over to throw up the window and look out. ‘Yes, it’s the right one. Let him in, will you?’

  While Jason went to the front door, the man with the cigar returned to Bea. ‘You hoped someone would come to your rescue, did you? I saw you look at the clock. Well, forget it. One of us has been getting very close to you and knows all your secrets. Want to guess who it is?’

  Horrors, did he mean . . .? No, he couldn’t mean CJ! No, he couldn’t. Impossible. Or, who else? She couldn’t think. Someone close to her? Maggie, no. Oliver, no. This was ridiculous.

  Mr Jason brought the man into the room. A stranger. A total stranger. A well-dressed, willowy man with pale hair and an anxious expression. Bea sagged with relief.

  ‘You recognize him, do you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Let me introduce you. Howard Butcher, of Holland and Butcher. He’s been paying blackmail to Ms Butt for eighteen months. We met at a rather boozy reception and he confided his little problem to me, not realizing that I was in the same boat. He was delighted to hear that something could be done about it, and when he learned that you were poking your nose into our affairs, he helped us by monitoring your movements.’

  Through Ianthe? And much good that had done him or her. Except . . . had Ianthe kept the keys to the agency when she left? Bea had a horrible feeling that she had. She remembered Ianthe throwing taunts at her and at Oliver, and Oliver looking in her bag for a memory stick, which she hadn’t got . . . and both he and Bea had completely forgotten to ask Ianthe for her keys after she left.

  So, Ianthe had given her keys to Mr Cigar, which was how he’d managed to get into the house; not through the front door, but through the agency rooms. He’d switched on all the lights below, so as to find his way to the inside stairs. Ms Butt must have heard him moving around below and thrust her belongings out through the window so that she could pass herself off as lady of the house.

  Mr Cigar then had Ms Butt at his mercy while he awaited his accomplices: Mr Butcher for one, and Jason for the other. Jason had been told to bring Jeremy along, but had arrived empty-handed.