False Picture Read online

  ‘I suppose,’ said Bea, ‘I ought to begin with Lady Farne’s murder. Do you know anything about that?’

  Velma opened her eyes. ‘Now this I do want to hear.’

  ‘The Farne case. Yes,’ said the grey man. ‘We were asked to look out for the boxes that were stolen.’

  ‘Not only the boxes,’ said Bea. ‘A picture also went missing, which is where we came in …’ She tried to tell him the events of the past week in order, and he let her talk, only interrupting a couple of times when she’d not been absolutely clear as to the sequence of events. The WPC took notes, sniffing occasionally.

  ‘The missing Millais is genuine,’ said Bea. ‘I’ve got a reproduction of it somewhere. I also took photos on my mobile phone of the boxes, the miniatures and of the man who was supposed to collect them from the girls.’

  ‘Nineteen boxes, you say? There should be twenty.’

  ‘So I’m told. But there were only nineteen in that consignment.’

  At this point Maggie brought in a tray with a cafétiere of coffee on it, and a pot of camomile tea. ‘No champagne?’ asked Velma, but accepted tea without further demur.

  Bea asked Maggie to remain. ‘We believe one of the missing young men – Charlotte’s boyfriend, Liam Forbes – has gone back to Ireland. I expect you can check that. Another one, name of Zander, may have ended up in Central Middlesex Hospital.’

  Maggie said, ‘There’s a man there who’s been knifed and beaten up and looks like Zander, but he didn’t seem to recognize me. I didn’t like to argue because he looked so poorly, and anyway, there was a policeman at his bedside.’

  Bea looked at the clock on the mantelpiece, but it had stopped. It was an old clock with a pre-battery movement. She must have forgotten to wind it. Her watch reported that the day was still young. How soon would Mr Van be arriving?

  She forced herself to continue. ‘The man who knifed me last night knew all about the smuggling. I assume he’s the mastermind behind the murders of Lady Farne and of Mr Goldstone’s friend Leo. He certainly had no compunction about sticking his knife into me. I’m hoping the police will locate him before he finds me again.’

  Bea checked her watch again. ‘Now, about this time of day the man called Van should be accessing the bag I left at Bruges station and then all hell will be let loose. He will not be pleased, and I won’t feel safe till he knows I’ve passed the stuff on to the insurance company.’

  The DI considered what she’d said. ‘Let’s get back to the young man whom Mrs Weston threw out of the window. You say there was no sign of him when you looked out, but you failed to search the garden to see if he were badly hurt.’

  Bea said, ‘I was in no fit state to search for him. Mrs Weston had had a stroke. I called an ambulance and we got out.’

  ‘Do you have a name for this man, or a picture of him on your phone?’

  Maggie looked thoughtful. ‘Mrs Abbot, you told Charlotte and me that the man behind the murders must somehow or other be connected with our flat. You say he was small? Not as tall as me?’

  Bea said, ‘Mid-brown hair, conservatively cut. Slight build, soft voice, nondescript. If he wore an anorak and jeans you wouldn’t look at him twice, but I would say his suit was a good one. He was much stronger than he looked, and when he got going, he projected an aura of, well, violence.’

  ‘I marked his cheeks,’ said Velma, with satisfaction. She spread her beautifully-cared-for hands out. ‘I haven’t had time to do my nails since. Do you think I’ve got his DNA under my fingernails?’

  Maggie muttered a name, and repeated it. ‘I think you’re talking about Ralph something. From the flat above ours. Works in an art gallery in … Bond Street? I didn’t have a chance to talk to him, but Zander said Ralph always had a pretty girl in tow, and he did that night. She was a model, I think. She looked like it, anyway. They left the party early. I can’t think of anyone else who matches your description.’

  Velma was still holding up her hands. ‘Do we scrape under my fingernails and put the bits in a sealed envelope or something?’

  The DI stood up. ‘I’ll get someone round to do it for you, Mrs Weston. In the meantime I’d like a look in your house to see if we can find the knife you say this man used on you, and also to check that he’s not still lying injured in your garden.’

  ‘The walls round our gardens are all high, and if he were injured he probably couldn’t get out. Serve him right!’ said Velma. She tried to get up, and fell back in her seat. ‘But if you don’t mind, I’ll give you my keys and you can explore as much as you like on your own. I need a restorative nap.’

  Bea said, ‘You stay here and rest, Velma. Inspector, I’ll come with you, if you like. I know how to turn off the alarm.’

  ‘We’ll need detailed statements from all three of you. And from the other girl … Charlotte, is it?’

  ‘Tell the truth,’ said Maggie, ‘I’m a bit worried about Charlotte. I know her manners are appalling and she’s so self-centred she’s practically a nut-case, but I did think she’d surface some time this morning before she went off to work. I’ve tried her mobile and she isn’t answering. I rang the library, too, but they say they haven’t seen her. If she’s gone off with another boyfriend without saying a word … well … she might, mightn’t she?’

  Bea got to her feet and checked her appearance in the mirror over the fireplace. She realigned her fringe, and sought for lipstick in her handbag, saying, ‘Charlotte is a very silly little girl, with a tongue loose at both ends, but … Oh, I do hope I’m not right, but I’m just wondering how Ralph knew my name and that I’d tricked Mr Van out of the art treasures. Because he did know. Could Charlotte have told him? Could he have been her date last night? Only, Ralph doesn’t work in the library, does he?’

  Maggie pressed buttons on her phone. ‘Is that the library? Yes? Has Charlotte turned up for work yet? She hasn’t? … You’ve been ringing her but she doesn’t answer? She went out last night with someone called Ralph, who works at the library … there isn’t anyone at the library called Ralph? Sorry to have troubled you.’ She shut off the phone. She’d lost all her usual colour. ‘So where is she?’

  The DI got to his feet. ‘Do you want to report her missing? It sounds like a night on the tiles went on too long.’

  Bea wasn’t sure. ‘I’d agree, if I hadn’t been on the receiving end of Ralph’s knife. Suppose we leave it for a couple of hours and contact you if she doesn’t turn up? Meanwhile, I’ll come with you to Mrs Weston’s place.’ She looked out of the window to see if she should pick up a jacket. ‘Bother, it’s raining.’

  Maggie wailed, ‘It would! I left my umbrella and raincoat at the flat. Can you drop me off there on your way?’

  Bea dithered. ‘Someone needs to stay with Mrs Weston.’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ said Velma, closing her eyes and nestling further into the settee.

  The DI said, ‘If we go round by the flats first, I can have a word with the concierge, see if he confirms any part of your story.’

  Bea would have liked to splat him, but realized it would take too much of her waning energy to do so. ‘We can’t leave Mrs Weston alone. Maggie, I’ll just check that I’ve still got the keys to the flat. If I have, you can stay to look after Mrs Weston and I’ll fetch your umbrella and raincoat while the DI is busy talking to Randolph downstairs.’

  ‘I’ll keep on ringing Charlotte,’ said Maggie, seeing them out. ‘She’s probably stayed overnight somewhere and overslept.’

  Bea checked her watch again. How long had they got before the sky fell on them?

  Back at the flats, Bea left the DI talking to Randolph in the foyer, while she and the WPC went up in the lift. ‘I’ll come with you,’ said the WPC. ‘I might spot something you’ve missed.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Bea, but didn’t object when the WPC opened doors for her. As Bea fitted Maggie’s key into the door of the flat, they heard a phone trilling inside.

  The flat was silent. Open doors let on t
o empty rooms. The phone stopped.

  ‘The girls’ room is at the end,’ said Bea, telling herself there was nothing to fear in an empty flat.

  The phone started again as they walked down the corridor. The door to the girls’ room was ajar. The phone kept on ringing. Bea saw Charlotte’s shoes first. One was on the floor at the foot of the bed. The black skirt and off-the-shoulder peasant blouse came next. The white blouse was stained with congealed blood. Ralph’s knife had found its target perfectly this time. At her side lay her handbag, containing her mobile phone, still trilling. A bluebottle skittered around the room.

  The WPC lunged past Bea to test for signs of life. There weren’t any. ‘You recognize her?’

  Bea nodded. ‘Charlotte. An irritating child, but she didn’t deserve this.’

  The WPC got out her own phone.

  Bea was almost weeping with fatigue by the time she reached home again. The search for a body in Velma’s garden had proved fruitless, but they could see where Ralph had broken branches on a small tree, scrambling over the wall, and a house-to-house call later turned up the kindly gentleman who had helped Rafael to get away. His bloodied knife was found under Velma’s bed, and later DNA tied that blood not only to Bea but also to Zander, to Lady Farne and to Rafael’s first victim, the fine arts dealer from whom he’d stolen the twelve miniatures.

  Bea went to bed and tried to sleep. As did Velma.

  How long did they have before a knife snaked its way into their hearts? A uniformed policeman had taken up a position in the hall, but how long would he be able to stand guard over them? One day? Two? And then what would happen …?

  Late that afternoon, Bea was called down from where she’d been resting on her bed, to hear that she had a visitor. Oliver had returned from his mysterious errand and let him in, his credentials apparently satisfying the policeman on guard duty. Oliver didn’t recognize the visitor, but Bea did.

  As she entered the living room, he turned from the card table, a patience card in his hand. ‘Mrs Abbot. Red queen on black king. I hope you don’t mind?’ He placed the card in a new position.

  She ordered her breathing to calm down. ‘Mr Van. I’ve been expecting you. Do take a seat.’

  He did so, producing a business card. ‘The name and address of my firm in Amsterdam. I am, what you call, a recovery agent, working for insurance companies. A short time ago I was asked to look out for a thief, a man who had stolen twenty valuable boxes and twelve miniatures.’

  Bea was indignant. ‘I thought you were a receiver of stolen goods, and now you say work for an insurance company? Or are you freelance? The way you treated us all … and in particular the way you treated the girls …!’

  ‘A misunderstanding. I believed that you and the two girls were all part of the gang. I ought to have told you the truth, and there would have been no need for hiding bottles of water in the Left Luggage.’

  ‘Charlotte’s tongue wagged once too often. Ralph killed her last night.’

  He frowned. ‘And the stolen goods?’

  ‘Were passed to a British insurance company yesterday. An art dealer acted as go-between, and he will share the reward with me. I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.’

  He scratched his jowl. ‘How many boxes did you find?’

  ‘Nineteen. I presume Ralph kept one for himself.’

  ‘Your police are looking for him now?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s left his flat and no one seems to know where he’s gone.’ She shivered. ‘To tell you the truth, he terrifies me.’ She rose to her feet, indicating the interview was over. ‘I hope you find him before he kills again.’

  He stood, too. ‘What makes you think I can find him before the police do?’

  ‘You have his mobile phone number, and he has the twentieth box.’

  He gave her a little bow. ‘My deepest respects to you, madame. Perhaps one day we will work together on a different case.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Bea. ‘I like to be on the side of the angels, and I’m not sure where you stand on that issue, Mr Van.’

  When he’d gone Bea took a look at her neglected game of patience. More than one card had been moved in her absence. She swept the cards away. She had no time for play while Ralph was still at large.

  Wednesday evening

  The minutes, and then the hours ticked by. There was no news from the police.

  Piers dropped in to find out what had been happening, and Velma tottered down the stairs to demand a glass of champers for medicinal purposes. Piers behaved beautifully towards her, and she revived somewhat, attempting a return to her pretty, coaxing ways. It wasn’t a very good attempt and before long she left the room, tears welling from her eyes.

  Piers said, ‘Interesting what grief can do to a pretty woman. Sometimes it makes them paintable. I wouldn’t mind having a stab at her now.’ Bea remembered he’d once said he wanted to paint her, but had failed to follow up on his promise. But then, she’d never been a pretty woman, had she? The mirror over the fireplace reflected a hollow-eyed, tired face. Velma still looked adorable; Bea didn’t.

  Was she jealous? Perhaps, a little. Not that it was any good wasting emotion on jealousy where Piers was concerned.

  Maggie insisted that they should all have a good, home-cooked meal that evening. She said it would do them good to eat at the dining-room table, with candles and napkins and wine glasses even for those who were drinking mineral water. They had to agree – as they seated themselves at table – that Maggie had the right idea.

  ‘After all,’ said Velma, ‘we have much to celebrate. We are all alive and kicking, if feebly.’

  Bea thought, Thank God. I ought to be on my bended knees, thanking Him for delivering us from evil, and instead I’m sitting down to celebrate with friends. I’m an ungrateful woman, only too quick to ask for help and tardy at giving thanks. And oh! I forgot to pray for the two kind taxi drivers who helped me out in Bruges. I told them I’d remember them in my prayers and I completely forgot! So, please remember them, dear Lord. And of course I know it’s not over yet, so please, dear God, keep on watching over us.

  ‘Thank God,’ said Piers, unexpectedly echoing her thought.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Velma. ‘Who’d have thought it? And as for you, young man,’ looking at Oliver, ‘I keep forgetting your name, but I don’t forget you, I promise.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Oliver, who had brought a sheaf of papers with him to the table. ‘It’s been kind of fun, really.’

  ‘Put those papers away,’ said Bea. ‘Tonight we must eat, drink and be merry. No work till tomorrow.’ Oh, dear … the tax return!

  Oliver pulled a face, but did as he was told. Maggie’s roast chicken, flavoured with garlic and herbs, was a dish to be savoured. Maggie removed the lids from various vegetable dishes, to reveal roast potatoes, her own special stuffing, tiny carrots, and calabrese. ‘Apple pie and cream to follow.’

  ‘I’ll put on weight,’ mourned Velma, ladling food on to her plate.

  ‘Who cares!’ said Bea. ‘I’m sure I’ve lost weight this last week, so I’ll merely be replacing what I’ve lost.’

  They tried to be merry, and succeeded pretty well. Piers proposed a toast. ‘Here’s to a quiet conscience, and peace to those no longer with us.’

  Velma’s hand trembled as she put down her glass. ‘I owe everyone an apology for what I said and did yesterday. I wasn’t myself. Of course Sandy loved me, and I loved him. And of course Philip must have his things – if we can find him.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ said Oliver, producing his wodge of paper once more, ‘I think I know where he is.’

  Velma fixed her large eyes on Oliver. ‘You are a clever boy, as well as a good one.’

  Oliver wriggled. ‘Well, Mrs Abbot gave me Philip’s phone which was quite dead. I charged it up and listened to the messages on it, but they weren’t much help. There were a couple from a man who never gave his name – though I think it was Ralph – telling Philip to me
et him at the usual place. Then a couple more, angry when Philip didn’t turn up. I got a list of names from the phone’s memory bank and started ringing around. It took a while because I didn’t even know what areas some of the codes were for, so I took the phone and the list to a friend of mine whose father can make computers do whatever he wants.’

  ‘A hacker?’ said Piers, eyebrows slanting.

  Oliver coloured up. ‘What we did wasn’t illegal. At least, I don’t think so. We sorted out what codes were London, and those which were Scotland …’

  ‘Scotland!’ Bea closed her eyes. ‘He went up to his mother’s? I’d forgotten all about her.’

  ‘No, he’s not there. We asked. He’s working in a hairdresser’s in South London, in Peckham, sweeping floors and taking towels to the launderette.’

  Sensation!

  Velma said, ‘My jaw has dropped so far I’m almost speechless. What’s he doing there? Oh. A girl?’

  Oliver nodded. ‘There were several girls’ names listed. All except one said that they hadn’t seen him for weeks and didn’t care if they never saw him again. But there were three numbers listed for one particular girl; Rachel. A mobile, which was permanently switched off. A landline for a solicitor’s office in Peckham. I asked for Rachel there, but they don’t let their employees take personal calls at work.

  ‘I got through to the third number eventually. It’s a pay phone in a house share. A man with a strong accent, probably Jamaican, answered the phone. He said four people share the house and he thinks there’s someone dossing down in Rachel’s room. Name of Johnno.’

  ‘Johnno?’ repeated Velma, in tones of disbelief.

  ‘I know,’ said Oliver. ‘The name “Johnno” didn’t sound like Philip to me, so I asked if he were a big strong black bloke, and my informant neighed with laughter and said he was a little white scrap of a lad. Which sounded hopeful. My informant also said that if I wanted Johnno urgently, he’d be working in the High Street at Divine’s.’

  Bea half closed her eyes. ‘Divine’s. Of course.’

  ‘So I got on the internet and discovered that Divine’s is a specialist hairdressers …’