False Step Page 4

  ‘I get out my box of things to clean, and out comes the hoover, which is wrong. I take my box and I go up the stairs to the bathroom. Every time, the bathroom first so it is clean for him when he wakes up. I see the bedroom door is open. That is not right. If he is in bed, the door is closed so I know not to go in. He is … what you say … careful? Not to show me when he is bare?’

  ‘Modest?’

  Kasia nodded. ‘I think this is strange. He is not downstairs and there is no music from the studio at the bottom. So I look in the room and it is still all dark, so I turn on the light and I see …’ She hesitated.

  ‘The shoes. You saw the shoes first?’

  ‘Yes. Is very odd. The shoes, the dresses, all live downstairs. They are for work, not for every day. Then I see the dress and I go close up and I look at his face which is now so small … and I am afraid.’

  ‘There is nothing to be afraid of,’ said Bea, who had also been distressed by the sight.

  ‘I say to myself, out loud I say, “This is not right.” I sit down on the floor, bump. I hold myself like this’ – and she hugged herself. ‘I say, “This is very bad.” I am looking at the shoes. His shoes that go with the red dress. I lift up the dress and there are his feet in black socks. I put the shoe on, and it is the wrong fit!’

  Bea looked at her in bewilderment. ‘Wrong fit?’

  ‘Wrong fit! Wrong fit!’ Seeing that Bea still didn’t understand, Kasia took off one of her own shoes, leaned over and took off one of Bea’s. She tried to put her own shoe on Bea, who had a much bigger foot than Kasia, so the shoe didn’t fit.

  ‘Wrong fit! See?’ said Kasia, shaking her head.

  Bea repeated. ‘Wrong feet. The shoe didn’t fit?’

  ‘Too big. Wrong fit. I put the shoe back on the floor, and I pull the dress down, and my heart is coming quick, quick, and I turn off the light and I get down the stairs quick, quick, and I phone Mrs Green to come, help, help! And I run away.’

  Bea couldn’t make head nor tail of this. ‘The wrong feet? But … I don’t understand. Would you be prepared to tell the police about this?’

  The woman drew back. Bea could see her working it out. It was better for her to say she’d been mistaken than to insist something was wrong. If she did that, it opened up all sorts of trouble … police, investigations, the legality of working for cash in hand, the language barrier.

  Finally Kasia said, ‘I know nothing. I went up there. Was big shock. I made mistake about the fit. I phoned Mrs Green. I came away.’

  Bea swept her fringe slantwise across her forehead. Did she need a haircut soon? Probably. She wasn’t sure what to think. Kasia had seemed convinced that the shoes were wrong at first, but now she wasn’t. Bea knew that shock could skew people’s perception of an incident. Look how many different versions of the ‘truth’ were given by witnesses to an accident.

  Besides, if Kasia had spoken the truth … no, her story was so unlikely that if Bea hadn’t seen the body for herself, she would have dismissed it out of hand. As it was, Bea didn’t know what to think.

  The phone rang, and Bea took the call.

  A woman’s voice, well-educated but sharp. ‘Good evening. Is that Mrs Abbot, of the Abbot Agency? The police gave me your name. I believe you found my father yesterday. It must have been a shock for you, though not for me, of course. Oh, my name is Frasier, by the way, Damaris Frasier.’

  ‘Mrs Frasier. How can I help you?’

  ‘I only heard of my father’s death when the police came round after work yesterday. I gather someone tried to phone during the day but both my husband and I were out and our son was at school, of course. Looking back, I suppose I ought to have suspected he was up to something. He knew the pain was only going to get worse. I believe the pills he took would have given him release very quickly. A bizarre way to go but he was an eccentric, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I’m afraid I never met him in life.’

  ‘Didn’t you? Well, I suppose you drew certain conclusions, seeing the body—’

  Bea shuddered, remembering. ‘I gather he was an entertainer and used to dress up in extravagant clothes.’

  ‘Least said, frankly. The family are not exactly anxious to have that side of his life appearing in the tabloids, which is why I have to get rid of all those disgusting garments first off …’

  Kasia made as if to go, but Bea signalled that she should stay put.

  ‘The police say you found him, or that someone in your employ found him and called you. I’m not clear what happened.’

  ‘His cleaner found him and was so shocked that she phoned the agency to take over from her. Which is how I came into it.’ It did no harm to cut Florrie out of this story, did it?

  ‘I see. Well, what’s done is done, and we have to move on, don’t we? Now the police told me you run an agency which supplies domestic staff, clears houses, that sort of thing, which is a stroke of luck, for of course the house will need to be cleared before it can be sold. Do you still have the keys? If so, I suggest we meet there on Monday morning at ten o’clock sharp.’

  Bea said, ‘Isn’t it a bit soon to—?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Briskly. ‘Time is money, I’ve a job and a family to look after, and I don’t believe in hanging around waiting for things to happen. I made the formal identification last night, and they are rushing through the autopsy, though of course we know exactly how he died. I shall have the death certificate by the day after tomorrow at the latest, and after that I can register the death. It won’t take long. I’ll fix up the funeral for as soon as possible. It will be private because the family don’t want any jokes about dressing up in women’s clothes on such a solemn occasion, and he will be cremated, which is what he wanted. I’ve been in touch with his solicitor. Everything comes to me so the sooner the house is cleared and on the market, the better. Till Monday morning, then.’

  The phone clicked off.

  Bea looked at the receiver, before putting it down. ‘Well, that settles it. Kasia, that was Mr Kent’s daughter on the phone. Have you ever met her? No? She sounds very … positive. She was out at work, which is why we couldn’t get hold of her earlier. She’s identified the body as that of her father and is making all the necessary arrangements. So that’s that.’

  The two women stared at one another. Bea tried to make sense of what had happened. ‘We were both badly shaken when we saw the body. The body on the bed was definitely that of Mr Kent. I suppose people look smaller when they’re dead.’

  Kasia nodded. She got to her feet, her expression remote. ‘I was upset. I didn’t see straight.’

  ‘Me, neither. The daughter wants to tidy him away without a lot of gossip about his dressing-up in women’s clothes. I can understand that. She wants the agency to help her clear the house and put it on the market. If I get the job, would you like to put in some hours on it?’

  Kasia refused to meet her eyes. ‘Maybe.’

  Bea walked Kasia to the front door. ‘You will register with us tomorrow, so that we can get you better jobs and put your present ones on a proper footing? You should get more money that way.’

  Still Kasia refused to meet her eyes. ‘Thank you. That would be good.’

  Bea hesitated, holding the front door open. ‘Kasia, if you ever have a problem, at any time, you know where I am?’

  A wooden look. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Stay in touch, right?’

  Kasia inclined her head and walked down the steps, turning left to the High Street and the Tube station.

  Bea watched her till she was out of sight, then closed the door quietly. She was not happy about what had happened. Suppose the shoe really hadn’t fitted?

  Oh, ridiculous. There could be a thousand reasons why it hadn’t. He’d bought them, knowing they would slip off, but hoping to be able to fix the problem. Bea had done that a couple of times, buying shoes which were a fraction too big, lining the inside of the heel or stuffing the toes with paper … and finally throwing them away because no mat
ter what she did, they wouldn’t stay on.

  Of course. She shook herself. ‘Brrr.’ No need to make a drama out of it.

  So, she was due to go out that night, a theatre date with an old friend. Well, not an old friend, really, for she was meeting her long-time-divorced ex-husband, Piers, who had somehow managed to reinstate himself in her life as a friend. What was she going to wear?

  Not scarlet and gold, that was for sure. Or red shoes.

  Friday evening

  As arranged, she phoned her friend late that night.

  ‘So far, so good. I should get the death certificate tomorrow some time. The Polish girl won’t answer her phone, so I got in touch with the agency …’

  ‘Why on earth did you do that?’

  ‘I wanted to be sure she got the picture. The police said that it was someone from the agency who actually reported the death. Apparently Kasia saw the body, lost her nerve, called in her supervisor and ran away. No backbone. Anyway, we need someone to make an inventory of the house contents, so that we know exactly what we’re getting. The agency can do that. Also, if I put an advert for the car in the papers, they can field the replies. Neither of us wants to sit at the end of the phone all day, do we?’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. Where is the car, by the way? I looked around this morning, and couldn’t see it. If I’d got keys, I could have gone in and checked through his paperwork. I’m sure there’s still some stuff that needs shredding.’

  ‘I could let you have his keys, I suppose. As for the car, it must be around. It’s residents’ parking only. In the next street, perhaps? I’ll have a look tomorrow.’

  Saturday evening

  Bea had no illusions about her ex-husband. He was never going to be faithful to one woman until the day he failed to perform in bed and, though he was now in his sixties, he was as attractive as ever in a rumpled, charmingly ugly sort of way, and showed no signs of slowing down. Sometimes she wondered why he’d ever chosen to marry her, a priggish child fresh out of school. He certainly hadn’t kept his marriage vows for long or, as a struggling portrait painter, provided enough for her and little Max to live on. She’d gone out cleaning for other people to make ends meet, eventually finding herself a job helping dear Hamilton in his domestic agency … then marrying him … and living with him contentedly until cancer had struck.

  No, thought Bea, struggling into and then out of strappy shoes which were a trifle too tight. I’m not going to cry. Piers hates seeing women cry, and he won’t like it if I do, even though he and Hamilton became good friends over the years, and Piers’ portrait of Hamilton is my most precious possession.

  She inspected herself in the long mirror; a short dark-green satin sheath, sparkling with jet around the low neckline. Luckily her figure was still good enough to pass, with help from a sensible bra. Black satin pumps with a heel. Luckily Piers was a tall man. A brilliant-green jacket to go with it? No. Too harsh. A dark-green silk with splashy pink roses on it. Yes, that was better.

  She took a cab to the theatre where she was to meet Piers. There was no point in taking the car in, as they were to have a meal afterwards. Bea suppressed the thought that it would probably give her indigestion to eat after the performance, but there … Piers had suggested it and she’d not thought quickly enough to argue. But then, few people did argue with Piers. Women didn’t, anyway.

  He made it to the theatre at the very last moment, so they had no time to talk beforehand, and in the interval they met up with some friends of his. Bea tried to concentrate on the play, which in her opinion was too depressing for words and didn’t deserve the nearly full house it was attracting.

  Piers noticed her moments of abstraction of course, but didn’t comment on it till they were seated at an Italian restaurant in Covent Garden, and had ordered.

  ‘What’s up, Bea?’

  She made an effort. ‘Sorry. Poor company tonight, I’m afraid. It was just that something bizarre happened. There was a perfectly rational explanation to it, but I keep getting flashbacks.’

  ‘I like bizarre. Tell me about it.’

  ‘Well …’ She tried to make a funny story out of it, the shock she’d got when she opened the studio door and saw herself in the mirror, the red shoes, the body on the bed.

  Piers suspended operations on his osso buco. ‘What did you say his name was?’

  ‘Kent. On his business cards it says “Magnificent Millie”.’

  Piers looked shocked. ‘Not Matthew Kent!’ He took a gulp of his wine. ‘Are you sure? I know him. Everyone knows him.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘That’s because you don’t get out and about enough. One of the last of the old-style entertainers. Surely you’ve come across him at a party or … no, you hardly ever go out at night, do you?’

  She shook her head. Not since Hamilton had started to die, no.

  Piers patted her hand. ‘Of course. I forget you were tied up for so long. I didn’t mean to sound callous. Well, well. I did hear that he was thinking of retiring when I last saw him, must be eighteen months or so back. He wanted to concentrate on doing something else, writing for television, something like that. He couldn’t be that old. Late fifties, early sixties, I suppose. Was it his heart?’

  Bea shook her head.

  Piers pushed his plate aside. ‘I must have missed the notice in The Times. I’m amazed no one’s mentioned it.’ He glanced around the restaurant, but for a wonder didn’t seem to recognize anyone there. ‘I suppose there’ll be a memorial service? I must try to go.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s going to be a memorial service. His daughter wants to keep the funeral quiet. Apparently she finds the dressing-up side of him rather embarrassing.’

  ‘Didn’t know he had a daughter. Wives, yes. Two at least.’

  Bea blinked. For some reason she’d imagined that Mr Kent might not have been too interested in women. ‘Someone called Damaris Frasier rang me, said she was his daughter and sole heir.’

  ‘Damaris?’ He shook his head. ‘Name doesn’t ring a bell, but then I only knew him well for a short time, a couple of years back, when I was painting him. In full fig, reflected in a mirror; real life man this side, his version of a number of women looking back at him. A bit corny, I thought, doing a reflection in a mirror, but the critics say it’s one of my best. It was still in the Portrait Gallery a while back; I’ll have to check, see if it’s still there. On loan, of course. Must be worth a bob or two now.’

  ‘Two wives? I wonder what they feel about his daughter taking over.’

  Piers was looking at his watch. ‘Sorry to rush you, but I’m due in the Midlands tomorrow afternoon, to paint another quango billionaire. Animal, vegetable or mineral; he’s got a stake in all three. Must get an early start. You don’t want a pudding or coffee, do you?’

  No, she didn’t, but she would have liked to have been able to refuse. Instead, he called for the bill and hustled her into her jacket. At least he settled the bill himself. Piers was doing well, nowadays.

  ‘Poor old Matthew,’ he said, summoning her a taxi. ‘Let me know when the funeral is, won’t you? I’ll pass the word around, get some of the lads together. He deserves a good send-off.’

  Four

  Sunday morning

  Hamilton had long ago decided they wouldn’t work on a Sunday. Sometimes he went to an early service at St Mary Abbots church nearby. Sometimes – more often as his illness wore him down – he’d just sit in the garden, or at his table overlooking the garden, and … well, just sit, really.

  He hadn’t had a lot of pain, for which Bea was profoundly thankful. It depended where cancer struck, didn’t it? The last few months had been tiresome for him because of increasing weakness, rather than pain. They’d delayed the start of their round-the-world trip, because it had seemed a new drug was actually holding the cancer at bay, but finally he’d said they should go as he wanted to see India before he died. And he had.

  Lucky old him.

  Now that Bea was bac
k in London, she often thought about going to the early morning service at church, but rarely did so. It wasn’t so much that she thought it a waste of time, but rather that she wasn’t sure she believed enough. Hamilton had said that acquiring faith was a journey, that you took it one step at a time, consulting the travel guide when in doubt as to the right road to take.

  That Sunday Bea overslept. She stood at her bedroom window looking up above the sycamore tree to the spire of the church behind. The bells were calling her to worship, but she hadn’t got dressed yet, and … no, she didn’t feel peaceful enough to go to church. Dear Max had come in late and to judge by his wayward footsteps as he climbed the stairs, he’d been drinking. Oh dear. All was quiet now. Presumably he’d sleep it off and then … what?

  Bea found herself praying for him. Please, dear Lord, help Max to sort himself out. I don’t hold any brief for Nicole, who is a hard, self-centred woman – although I suppose I ought not to say that – but, well, she is! Oh, all right, I’ll say a little prayer for her, too. Perhaps, if her younger sister were the pet of the family, she’s got some cause to be bitter, and if Max kissed the sister … no, he didn’t say he had. That’s just me wondering what triggered the explosion. Oh, I don’t know. I feel miserable for him, and for them. Any ideas?

  Maggie and Oliver both had plans to go out for the day. That was right and proper and just as it should be. They didn’t need to stay at home to look after Bea. Goodness gracious, no. Of course not. Especially with Max around.

  Bea made herself a cafetière of good coffee and took it on a tray into her sitting room. Still no sign of Max. The bells had ceased. She opened the French windows and stepped out on to the curling iron staircase which led down into the garden. Then stepped back inside. There was a cold wind blowing, and a spit of rain in the air.

  She turned on the radio. Turned it off.