False Report Page 8

  Jeremy heaved a suitcase through the door and sat on it, panting with the effort. ‘Books weigh a ton.’ He wiped his brow and staggered back down the steps for another load.

  Maggie threw up her hands. ‘He had two suitcases. He’s put all his books and papers in them, and I had to put everything else into black plastic bags.’

  Bea went out to help. Two plastic bags plus another suitcase, plus a laptop which didn’t look as if it would ever boot up again, judging by the dent in it . . . plus a dozen or so shopping bags . . .

  Breathless, Jeremy staggered past Bea into the hall with a pile of CDs, topped off with an orchid in a plant pot. ‘Do you think you could pay the taxi? I’m right out of change.’

  Maggie brought in some bulging carrier bags with the name of John Lewis blazoned on them. ‘He couldn’t find any pyjamas so we went to buy some on the way back but then he thought of other things he needed . . . whoops, mind that stereo system, it’s boxed up, but we’d best not drop it . . . and last of all, but not least, there’s this . . .’

  ‘This’ was a set of large cardboard boxes. For ‘large’, think ‘enormous’. The taxi driver had to help get them out of his cab and carry them in.

  ‘What on earth . . .?’ Bea looked for her handbag to pay the cab driver.

  ‘Mind his new keyboard.’ Maggie picked up some of the bags. ‘I’ll start toting these upstairs. I didn’t mean to take the day off work, but I couldn’t stop him, once he’d started. He was like a child in a sweet shop, wanting everything he set eyes on, wouldn’t even stop to eat.’

  Bea paid the cab driver and saw him off before picking up some of the black dustbin bags and following Maggie up the stairs. ‘I got your estimate off in the post.’

  ‘Oh, good. If we just dump everything in Oliver’s room, he can sort it out later.’

  Bea lowered her load to the floor and gave Maggie an old-fashioned look.

  ‘On the other hand,’ said Maggie, ‘I don’t suppose he’ll bother, so perhaps we’d better sort it for him. I’ll bring the stereo up next.’

  ‘I’ll fetch another load. But not the books. They can stay downstairs.’

  They toiled up and down the stairs until, when most things were stowed away and they were on their way back downstairs, they heard music.

  Jeremy had put his new keyboard together in the sitting room and was sitting there, playing something sweet and melancholy which Bea didn’t recognize. He didn’t look up when they entered, but continued to play, his eyes unfocused.

  He had set up his keyboard by the French windows which overlooked the garden, pushing aside the table which Bea occupied when she played patience in the evenings, and using her chair.

  What was he playing? Something you could dance to; something by Mozart?

  Bea sank on to the settee. Maggie folded herself into an armchair.

  He was playing as if he were in a dream. The tune was there, and then it was gone, swept away by a new theme. It lifted you up and drifted you around like the petals from a cherry tree, floating here and there. A rare talent.

  Bea listened and remembered going to concerts with Hamilton before he became ill. Maggie listened . . . and remembered . . . what? She was smiling, not looking at anything in particular.

  Bea found her own lips had curved into a smile.

  He stopped. His hands rested on the keys, his head bent over them.

  Maggie shook herself. Bea’s first coherent thought was that the little man would say he was hungry in a minute.

  ‘Any chance of a bacon sandwich?’

  Maggie uncurled herself, stood and stretched. ‘Coming up.’ She left her shoes behind her and went out to the kitchen.

  Bea sighed. ‘Was that one of your own compositions, Jeremy?’

  ‘You liked it? Sometimes I just need to play. This is a beautiful room. I wish . . . I wish.’ He pulled the cover down over the keys. There were silver trails on his cheeks, sliding down into his beard. ‘I wanted to play something for her, for Josie. She didn’t deserve to die for what she did.’

  ‘I know.’

  He turned to face her, not bothering to wipe away his tears. ‘Will you find out what happened to her? And . . . perhaps . . . get me my home back?’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ She got to her feet, too. ‘Would you like tea or coffee with your sandwich?’

  He didn’t answer.

  She went out to the kitchen. ‘I seem to have promised to solve his murder.’

  Maggie blew her nose on a tissue. ‘Poor little man. He needs a minder.’ She took the sandwich and a cup of tea into the sitting room.

  And came back to Bea in the kitchen. ‘He’s not there. He hasn’t gone out, has he?’

  ‘We’d have heard the front door. Wouldn’t we?’

  ‘Perhaps he’s gone upstairs. He must be wiped out, with all that he’s gone through.’ Maggie traipsed up the stairs to the top floor. And then called down, ‘He’s not here, either.’

  The front doorbell rang, and Bea answered it. CJ stood there, immaculately tailored, bearing a bouquet of flowers which had definitely not been bought from the stall at the bottom of the road, or plucked from a bucket inside the nearest convenience store. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Um.’ Bea had forgotten she was meant to be going out for a meal with him. ‘Sorry, we’ve had a bit of a . . . Jeremy’s gone missing.’

  ‘Found him!’ Maggie sang out from the first floor. ‘Sleeping like a babe in the guest room.’

  Bea ran halfway up the stairs then – feeling her age – slowed down for the last bit. Maggie held the door open for her to see the little man had shucked off his shoes and curled up under the duvet. And yes, he was fast asleep.

  Maggie said, ‘Tired out, poor love. Probably forgot that he was supposed to be using Oliver’s room up top.’

  CJ appeared in the doorway. ‘“Who’s been sleeping in my bed, said Daddy Bear?”’

  Bea closed the door. ‘This is all your fault, CJ. You wished him on me.’

  ‘The police still fancy him for Josie’s murder. They think he paid someone to kill her for him.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Bea.

  Maggie said, ‘No way!’

  ‘Agreed.’ A wolfish smile. ‘So, Bea; are you ready? I have a car waiting.’

  She checked on what she was wearing. Heavens! A business suit, which was not at all appropriate for an evening out. And her hair . . . and she was sure her lipstick had long since vanished. ‘Five minutes.’

  ‘Ten,’ said CJ, handing the bouquet to Maggie, who was still burdened with the tray holding Jeremy’s snack. ‘Not a minute more.’

  Bea’s mobile phone rang. As she ran down the stairs to find it in her handbag, CJ followed her, saying, ‘Tell them to ring back later.’

  Bea fished it out of her handbag, feeling irritated. It was her first husband, Piers. ‘Look, Piers; I’m just about to go out. Can I ring you—?’

  ‘This is urgent, Bea. I’ve found someone, you’d never guess, but you’ll have to hear it for yourself. Can you get to the studio about ten tomorrow?’

  ‘Well, I . . .’ There was so much going on at the moment, she couldn’t think how she was fixed for tomorrow morning. And Ianthe—

  ‘It really ought to be tonight; the shock may have worn off if we leave it—’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  CJ strolled into sight, gesturing to his watch.

  ‘The Badger Game,’ said Piers.

  ‘Oh,’ said Bea. ‘Right. I’ll be there.’ She clicked off her phone.

  CJ said, ‘Haven’t you a copy of today’s Times? I’ve nearly finished the crossword, but . . . I did say ten minutes, didn’t I?’

  Bea nodded and made her way to the door. What should she change into? How much time did she have?

  And then she stopped in her tracks. CJ had asked her out for the evening, but not given her a time at which she should be ready. How like a man to assume you can drop everything and fall in with his timetable!

  Bea
could see Maggie in the kitchen, finding a vase in which to put CJ’s bouquet of flowers. Maggie was not coping well with what was happening. Maggie had been in tears earlier that week, and Bea hadn’t stopped to talk to her about it.

  Well, she’d talk to Maggie tomorrow . . . after she’d been to see Piers.

  Bea put her foot on the first step of the stairs and hesitated. Dear Lord above, surely it won’t hurt to leave it another day?

  Yes, it would.

  Which was more important: trying to sort Maggie out, or falling in line with CJ’s idea of punctuality?

  Bea took her foot off the step and went into the kitchen. ‘Maggie, I hate seeing you so miserable. I’m miserable, too. Can’t we talk about it?’

  Maggie gave a little sob, but continued to slot the flowers one by one into the vase. ‘It’s all right, honest. I’ve always known I’d have to move on sometime.’

  ‘I don’t want you to go.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s the way it’s got to be, isn’t it? I’ll manage. You don’t have to worry about me at all. Or Oliver.’

  ‘Is Oliver angry with me? He hasn’t been in touch, and I desperately need his advice.’

  Maggie twisted round to look at Bea. ‘But he said . . . He tried for days but you never replied to his emails.’

  Bea blinked. ‘What? But . . . Maggie, I’ve looked every day for emails from him, and . . . do you think that the new computer system is deleting his emails?’

  ‘But he tried texting you and ringing your new mobile number—’

  ‘What new mobile number? I haven’t changed . . . On the other hand, Ianthe seems to have been dialling a wrong number and—’

  CJ’s voice cut her off. ‘Ten minutes, Bea?’

  ‘This is important, CJ. Maggie . . .?’

  ‘You mean . . .?’

  Bea could hear her voice rise. ‘Maggie, if you really want to move out, I’ll understand and help all I can. But I don’t want to lose you, too.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I did say ten minutes, didn’t I?’ CJ was getting sharp.

  Maggie abandoned the flowers to wring her hands. ‘Max said you were selling up and giving me some money for a deposit on a flat of my own.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Bea. ‘And you didn’t think to check with me?’

  Maggie reddened. ‘Nor you with me.’

  Bea didn’t quite know how to explain. ‘Max gets ideas occasionally; not always practical. Or desirable. You don’t want to go, do you? I mean, I don’t want you to.’

  ‘I give up!’ CJ announced. ‘I’d better ring the restaurant and cancel the booking.’

  Maggie tried to smile. ‘Yes, but I’m grown up now and capable of earning my own living – sort of. Maybe I ought to go.’

  Bea smiled back. ‘I don’t want you to go. You don’t want to go. We’d better sit down and talk about it properly, don’t you think?’

  Maggie sniffed and reached for a tissue. ‘Tomorrow, after I finish up at number fourteen? The tiler said he’d redo one corner of the new wet-room, but he’s a slippery so and so, and I’ll need to lean on him to make sure he does it.’

  ‘It’s a date. Do you think it’s safe to leave Jeremy alone for five minutes tomorrow?’

  CJ was not amused. ‘Bea, the restaurant will hold the table for another half hour, but it’s in South Kensington, so if we don’t get a move on—’

  ‘I must change. Five minutes.’ Bea fled up the stairs.

  ‘Let me help you,’ said Maggie. ‘You have a shower, while I act as lady’s maid.’ She thundered up after Bea, overtaking her.

  Fifteen minutes later Bea descended the stairs, fresh and cool, her make-up at a minimum but perfectly acceptable, her hair shining. Maggie had selected a short-sleeved lacy top in apple green for Bea to wear, over a silvery skirt. At the last minute Bea had snatched up a russet-coloured pashmina shawl to go over her shoulders while Maggie stuffed items from Bea’s everyday handbag into an evening clutch. Silver sandals with a small heel completed the outfit.

  CJ ushered Bea out of the house and into the waiting cab without comment. He was miffed that she hadn’t been ready when he called, and he was making it clear he wasn’t going to make polite conversation until she apologized for keeping him waiting . . . which she was not prepared to do.

  She, on the other hand, felt much better for having talked to Maggie. At least now they were in this together. Whatever ‘this’ might turn out to be. A mystery to be solved, perhaps?

  Friday evening

  Maggie answered the door, munching on Jeremy’s bacon sandwich, while talking on the phone to Oliver.

  A well-dressed stranger, holding a pizza box. Not a delivery boy. He had a puzzled look on his face. ‘Is this Mrs Abbot’s place?’

  ‘That’s us.’ Maggie said into the phone, ‘Hold on a mo, Oliver. Someone at the door.’

  The man said, ‘I can’t believe this is happening. I was just walking along, minding my own business, and a pizza delivery boy got off his bike and pushed this box into my hands. Said he’d been ringing your doorbell for ever and couldn’t get a response, and he was late back. He said it was for a Mr Waite at Mrs Abbot’s house. And drove off. Do you have a Mr Waite at your house? Has he just phoned for a pizza?’

  ‘I didn’t hear the bell. It’s not very likely, but I suppose . . . if he woke up and felt peckish . . . Except, would he know where to call?’

  The stranger shook his head at the mystery, handed Maggie the pizza, and made off down the road.

  Maggie watched him go and returned to her phone conversation. ‘Oliver, something rather odd has just happened . . .’

  Friday evening

  The restaurant was one of those exclusive ones which have a few too many waiting staff for the number of customers being served. CJ opened the enormous menu. Bea looked inside her evening bag for her reading glasses. Oh. No glasses.

  She smiled brightly at CJ. ‘What a day! Suppose you choose something light for me to eat?’ Men liked to feel superior that way. And yes, CJ’s rigid stance actually thawed a trifle. She threw in a couple of compliments about the restaurant, which wasn’t really her style, but seemed to press the right buttons for him.

  ‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten that women can never be ready on time.’

  Bea smiled through her teeth, wondering if his long-dead wife had been a poor timekeeper.

  The meal was much as she’d expected: tiny portions which were over-decorated and over-spiced. Also, she suspected, overpriced. The wines were good, though. She exerted herself to draw him out. Why not? It cost her little, and she didn’t think he led much of a social life.

  On finishing his third glass, CJ actually unbent enough to pat her hand. ‘My dear Bea, may I say what a pleasure it is for me to dine with such an intelligent and amusing companion.’

  Men always think you’re intelligent if you get them to talk about themselves. Apparently, he’d forgiven her for keeping him waiting.

  ‘I trust,’ he said, ‘that this is only the first of many pleasant evenings that we can spend together, now that you’re planning to have more time to yourself.’

  Alarm bells rang in her head. ‘Oh, I like to keep busy, you know.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ He pressed her hand again. ‘All work and no play . . . you know?’

  Play. What did he mean by ‘play’? What sort of ‘play’ did he have in mind?

  ‘Which reminds me,’ she said, smiling at the absurdity of it, ‘that I had an offer you wouldn’t believe this morning. The lease of my ex-husband’s flat is up, and he suggested moving in with me.’

  ‘What?’ He removed his hand and slid smoothly into mandarin mode. ‘Ah, the portrait painter with the golden touch. A favourite with the ladies, I believe.’

  ‘Indeed. As it happens, Jeremy seems to have taken up residence with me so I don’t have a spare room to offer anyone. And speaking of Jeremy—’

  ‘I can’t discuss him, as I may be called to give evidence on his behalf if the c
ase ever comes to trial.’

  Bea raised her eyebrows. What nonsense! CJ had been happy enough to give her chapter and verse the previous day. What was going on here? ‘The poor little man has asked me to get his house back for him, and in a weak moment I said I’d try. Surely his wife will hang on to it, even if he’s as innocent as a newborn babe.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t comment, other than to say that the world moves on, whether we move with it or not. We can never bring back our yesterdays, no matter how attractive they might seem in retrospect. Shall we make a move?’ With an air of closing the discussion he summoned the waiter to pay with a gold card.

  What he said was true. Bea considered her own situation. Whatever she did with the agency, she didn’t see how she could return it to the way it had been run in the old days. Her present success had killed off the past. The agency now had too many clients for her to run it with a couple of women and a part-time accountant. And what about the buyers who were reported to be sniffing at her heels?

  Her computer . . . the password . . . her mobile phone number . . . Maggie’s work put in the bin . . . Ianthe’s motives . . .

  It was enough to make her want to retire to the Outer Hebrides and take up weaving, or folk singing. Only, she’d heard that broadband wasn’t readily available in those parts. A pity, but perhaps it would be some day soon? Well, that was something to look forward to in her dotage, wasn’t it?

  SEVEN

  Friday evening

  ‘If you’ll take my advice,’ said CJ, holding the door of the restaurant open for Bea, ‘you’ll distance yourself from Jeremy Waite. I agree with you that he’s probably innocent of killing the girl himself, but if the tabloids get news of your taking him in, you might find yourself in the middle of a crowd of paparazzi, all wanting murky details about your past life.’

  ‘There aren’t any murky details in my past life.’

  ‘It’s surprising the twist they can put on the most innocent detail. Your charitable impulse to take in Oliver and Maggie could be misinterpreted, as could your continuing relationship with your first husband, whose peccadilloes are well known. The newspapers will make some lies up and defy you to sue them – which it would be folly to do. And what about Max? Suppose they start looking into his life? Is he as squeaky clean as he claims about his expenses?’