False Alarm Page 8

  Bea looked searchingly at Lady O. Conclusion; the lady was in awe of, if not actually afraid of her husband. ‘Don’t try to rationalize it, but give me your gut reaction. Who is doing this?’

  ‘I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW! Do you think I haven’t thought and thought . . .? I mean, why would anyone want to . . .? Perhaps Lucas is right and this is all aimed at him and I’m collateral damage. But—’

  ‘Which member of your bridge party would be willing to become an accomplice to your murder? It must have been one of them who brought in the rat poison. Someone who went to the loo, saw the steak laid out in the kitchen and took the opportunity to poison it?’

  Closed eyes. Head shaking. ‘Someone might have come in from outside. They must have gained access to the building somehow or other and sneaked into the flat while we were all playing bridge.’

  Or arrived via the fire escape? Bea started back to the master bedroom, with Lady O at her heels. Bea opened the French windows and a gust of icy wind wrapped around her. She closed the windows. ‘Does the fire escape go all the way down to the ground? Could someone from outside have gained access that way?’

  ‘I don’t see how they could. All the flats have access to the fire escape, but the bottom two stories are enclosed in a brick wall. When you reach the ground floor you’re in a sort of well. There’s a door with a bar on it that you push down to get out, and then you’re in an alleyway, near the entrance to the garage. You can’t get into the building from outside, not even with a key.’

  ‘I don’t believe some stranger gatecrashed your party. The odds on their being seen would have been too great. Someone from the bridge party was responsible.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’ Lady O wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and inspected the result. ‘I must look a mess.’ She opened a mirrored door into an elaborate en suite with gold taps on everything in sight. She switched on concealed lights and slid back a mirror to reveal a cornucopia of beauty products.

  Reaching for a bottle of cleanser, she said over her shoulder, ‘You’ll want to check the fire escape out for yourself. Take a torch from the first drawer on the right in the kitchen because it can get dark at the bottom of the stairs. Close the French windows behind you to keep the heat in. Tap three times when you come back, so that I can let you in again.’

  Bea pulled on her big coat, found a torch in the place indicated, and went out into the wind and rain. Yes, it was now spitting rain. And clouding over. She rounded the corner of the terrace and came to the fire escape. Wrought-iron rungs led to the floor below. She could see through them to the next floor down. The gaps between would ruin the high heels of her boots if she weren’t careful. Oh well.

  One storey down and she was on a balcony which served the back doors and wide windows of the two flats directly under the penthouse. On one side there were a couple of wooden garden chairs and a table, which had been folded up and covered with plastic for the winter.

  She tried to recall what the twins had said about the occupants on this floor. One side was Professor Jacobsen, whose cat Momi had been too greedy for his own good. No lights showed in the flat on that side. The garden furniture would belong to him.

  She could see right into the other flat because someone had switched on the lights in both the kitchen and the bedroom beyond. A radio played pop music. The decorators were in. Stepladders, an awkward mound of furniture in the middle of the room, covered by dust sheets. Workmen moving to and fro. One window had been cracked; by the workmen? Another had been left open, and the scent of new, oil-based paint drifted out to her. The decorators had dumped some empty tins of paint and bags of rubble outside on the balcony. Tut-tut.

  According to Lucy and Carrie, the people who owned that flat had gone off to their second home in France, taking the opportunity to have the decorators in. So far as they knew, that flat was not for sale.

  Bea tested the back doors of both flats, noting that Professor Jacobsen’s back door had a cat flap at the bottom. Neither door budged an inch. She shone her torch upon their locks. No signs of forced entry.

  The iron staircase led on down. She caught the high heel of her best boots, wrenched it free. However careful she was, her heels were going to be ruined.

  Another balcony, another set of doors. Carrie Kempton on one side. Tariq on the other. Neither flat showed a light. These doors hadn’t been touched either, as far as she could see. An untidy heap of cardboard boxes mixed with polystyrene packaging occupied much of the balcony on Tariq’s side. A couple of garden chairs and some large pots filled with ivies and polyanthus gave the impression that Carrie Kempton liked to sit outside in good weather.

  Down, down, down. Bea caught the heel of her boot again and this time had quite a struggle to get it loose. Bother. Now who was on this floor? Lucy Emerson and . . . who? She couldn’t remember. Mrs Emerson’s back door and windows were both dark. There were garden chairs, pots and window boxes on her part of the balcony. The pots were filled with winter-flowering pansies, skimmias and ivies. Very pretty. No lights within; she must have gone out for the afternoon?

  The other side of the balcony, including the kitchen door, had been shut off with bamboo screens so that no one could look in. Why? Bea tried to remember who lived opposite Lucy. Some words floated back to her . . . ‘A Muslim family; very quiet.’ No lights showed within. It seemed that everyone on that floor was out, too.

  Down and down. Bea was getting confused. More garden furniture on either side; one lot was plastic, the other wood. Who lived on that floor? Was it the woman in the fake fur coat? Lucy and Carrie thought she was a call girl, didn’t they? They’d said, ‘She was a model, they say. Probably christened plain Carmel. Irish. She has men to pay the bills for her, if you get my meaning.’

  Bea had nodded. She’d wondered as much, herself. ‘She’s not on visiting terms with the Ossetts?’

  Lucy and Carrie had both laughed, short and hard. ‘She comes to the bridge parties, but she’s not exactly friendly, if you know what I mean.’

  Down and down. Suddenly, she was plunged into darkness as a brick wall rose up around her.

  Who was on this floor? She looked into the kitchens on either side. Tidy. Not much used on one side. A bit messy on the other. More garden furniture and what looked like a barbecue, well wrapped up against the winter winds.

  Lucy – or perhaps it was Carrie – had said, ‘Two couples; yuppies, I think they call them. Out all day. Banking. Advertising. Striped shirts, three-piece suits, fold-up bicycles and the latest laptops or whatever they call them now.’

  And the other one had said, in a tone of rebuke, ‘Except, of course, for dear Helen, but she wouldn’t cause any trouble. She’s been rather poorly.’

  Poorly or not, Bea considered that Helen’s kitchen could do with a good clean.

  Bea switched on the torch and descended to the ground floor. She located the exit door, pushed down on the bar and let herself out into an alley which ran along the back of the building. To prevent the door closing behind her, she wedged it open with the torch.

  The alleyway was kept clean. Each of the flats had a numbered wheelie bin, and they were lined up in strict order from one to fourteen. Mr Caretaker liked things to be neat, didn’t he? Bravo.

  Next to the fire escape door was a tunnel sloping down into the sub-basement. The garage entrance? Yes. There was a barrier across the tunnel which would only lift if you inserted a special card into a machine on the wall. Beyond the entrance to the tunnel was a lighted window and a door belonging, presumably, to the den of the disobliging caretaker.

  Bea walked along the alley, her heels crunching along the gravel which had been laid on top of the concrete surface. The hum of traffic grew louder as she emerged into a busy thoroughfare. Buses screeched, taxis whirled, children in pushchairs demanded treats, mothers young and old negotiated pavements, youths lounged . . . Normality.

  She retraced her steps to the other end of the alley, which petered out into a narrow spac
e between two blocks of flats.

  ‘What you doing?’ Mr Pancko, or Poncho? Narrow eyes and mouth, not much hair and that cut to a stubble, a big frame, well-muscled. ‘You, trespass. This private road.’

  ‘You are the caretaker? My name is Mrs Abbot. Lady Ossett gave me permission to check the security at the back of the building, as I have a client interested in buying one of the flats.’

  ‘I, security. You no move. I check.’ Menacing.

  Bea decided she wouldn’t like to cross this man, not least because he was carrying a heavy wrench. She waited, huddling into her coat. The rain was not heavy but it was insidious.

  He kept his wrench under his arm while he accessed a slender iPhone. Listened to the person he’d called. Nodded. With reluctance. Turned his phone off. ‘OK. You go now. I watch you, right? Security here good. Understand?’

  She nodded. She now saw the point of the gravel laid on the concrete. It made the footsteps of anyone who walked along the alley easy to hear. It was indeed good security.

  She retrieved her torch and let the exit door clang to behind her. A strong door, made of steel? Yes. She climbed the stairs again. And again. And again. And . . . She stopped for a breather only twice, which she thought was pretty good. Looking down into the yard, she saw the caretaker watching her progress, with his phone still in his hand. If she’d tried to access any of the flats on the way up, he’d have been after her in no time at all.

  She reached the top – wow! Wind and rain together, how delightful! She tapped on Lady O’s French windows and almost fell inside. Oh, her heels! She’d have to throw those boots away.

  ‘Satisfied?’ Lady O had restored her appearance to its norm and banked down the panic that had overtaken her earlier.

  ‘Your caretaker is quite an ogre, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s an excellent watchdog. Mrs Abbot, would you care to join me for a late lunch? I’m about to send out for something. What do you like to eat?’

  ‘Anything. I agree with you about the fire escape. Which means that, whether you like it or not, whoever tampered with your steak must have been a member of the bridge party. I also agree that you may still be in danger. If you won’t leave—’

  A bitter smile. ‘I can’t argue with Lucas.’

  ‘Then you must have a bodyguard.’

  ‘Maggie would be perfect, but you say she’s unobtainable?’

  ‘Maggie would not be perfect, as you very well know. Oh yes, she’d be easier for you to boss around, but she doesn’t have the sort of suspicious mind that’s needed to spot anything out of place; a missing light bulb, an improperly addressed package in the post.’

  Lady O grimaced. ‘You’re right, of course. The girl’s made great strides. She was always such an ugly duckling, so unresponsive to all my efforts to help her, I hadn’t realized that she’d become a swan. Well, not a swan, exactly; we mustn’t overstate the case. But—’

  ‘In view of her liking for bright clothing . . . a peacock?’

  Lady O managed to laugh almost naturally. Then sobered. ‘Your Oliver, now. He’s got the right kind of mind.’

  ‘He helped you complete the crossword today?’

  ‘With his mind on his meeting with Lucas. I could have warned him that my husband eats bright young things for breakfast, but he’ll have to find it out for himself. Anyway, even if Lucas didn’t want him for his own purposes, Oliver wouldn’t do for me. I won’t have anyone gossiping about me and a young man.’

  It was Bea’s turn to smile. ‘No toy boys?’

  Another laugh, and this time it was natural. ‘No toy boys. And no other suitor waiting in the wings. Lucas is more than enough for me. Shall we forget the diet and share a pizza, perhaps?’

  Bea nodded. As Lady O rang in her order, Bea wondered exactly how long Lucas intended to leave his wife in limbo. The grounds for his doing so seemed, well, flimsy to Bea. Surely if he loved her, he’d have removed her to a place of safety before now? But then; successful, ambitious men often put their wives second to their work. And if he had another woman in his sights . . . Oh dear.

  How was Oliver getting on at Vicori House? Would Lucas really offer Oliver a job? Would it be right to stand in his way . . . even supposing that it were possible to do so?

  The pizza came. Crispy and tasty. They ate at a table below the Freud portrait.

  Bea refused coffee, looking at her watch. ‘It’s a Friday afternoon, and I have a business to run, so if you will give me a list of who was at your bridge party, I’ll be on my way.’

  Lady O shivered. ‘I’ll write it out for you later this afternoon. Do you really have to go so soon?’

  ‘When I get back to the agency, I’ll sort out someone to come round to look after you for a while. Meanwhile, there’s one person in the building whom I think you can rely on, and that’s Professor Jacobsen. He knew his cat was in the habit of visiting you, and he wouldn’t have put the animal in danger, would he? Was he a member of your bridge party?’

  ‘He doesn’t always come, but he was there this time. He doesn’t approve of me. I’ve heard him refer to me as a “blonde bimbo” as if I were still sixteen and not knocking fifty. Tell the truth, he’s the one person in the flats who scares me. He’s a scholar of the old school. I know I ought to have gone down and told him when I found Momi, but I was so shaken that I . . . I put it off. And then I lied when he asked me if I’d seen his cat and now . . . it’s just too difficult. I’ll get the caretaker to dispose of the body.’

  ‘No, you won’t. You’ll invite the Professor to come up here, and you will turn on the charm and confide in him about the terrible strain you’re under, and then you’ll confess that you found Momi dead, and cry a little, and look up at him, all poor little me, and of course you’ll offer to buy him a replacement pedigree cat. Right?’

  Lady O looked down at her hands and then up at Bea. ‘Must I?’

  ‘You know it’s the right thing to do. Presumably he’s too old to make your husband jealous, and he’s bright enough to act as your bodyguard till we can get a professional in place for you.’

  Lady O nodded. ‘You’re right, of course. But perhaps not today. Maggie said she’d come back this evening and—’

  Bea got to her feet. ‘You need company this afternoon, and if you play your cards right, you can keep him here till Maggie arrives or I find someone to look after you.’ She tucked herself into her coat. ‘I’m going downstairs now to knock on his door, and if he’s in I’ll ask him to call on you straight away. If he’s out, I’ll put a note under his door, asking him to phone you, and you can invite him up. Lock the door after me, and make sure he identifies himself when he comes.’

  She left Lady O crumpling a handkerchief in her fingers, with tears starting out on her cheeks. It made Bea feel a bully, but she had to be cruel to be kind, or she’d be there all day. Now, for the Professor . . .

  SEVEN

  The afternoon was growing dark. Rain still spat at the windows as she made her way down the stairs. The merry sounds of workmen continued to come from flat number twelve but there was neither light nor sound at number thirteen. Correction; there was no number thirteen. Professor Jacobsen had altered his flat number to twelve A.

  Bea knocked, and then rang the doorbell.

  ‘Hang on a moment!’ A man’s voice; tetchy but not cracked with age. A slither of curtain rings as a heavy porte cochère was drawn back. A spyhole was consulted. A key turned in a lock. The door opened a crack. On a chain.

  ‘Professor Jacobsen?’

  ‘What’s it to you, young lady?’

  Bea almost giggled. It was some years since she’d been called a ‘young’ lady.

  She caught a glimpse of a tall, thin man through the narrow opening. A coxcomb of white hair, shaggy eyebrows over a beaky nose, long upper lip, clean-shaven. Lively, light-grey eyes.

  ‘Bea Abbot, Mrs. Called in by Lady Ossett, who has . . . who is . . .’

  ‘What’s the bimbo been up to now?’ A dismissive tone.r />
  ‘She’s no bimbo, and someone’s trying to scare her to death.’

  ‘She probably caught a glimpse of a mouse.’

  ‘A dead mouse wouldn’t faze her.’

  Pause.

  The door closed, the chain was taken off, and the door reopened. ‘You used the word “dead”?’

  ‘She wonders if you would be so kind as to pay her a visit this afternoon. That is, if you are not otherwise engaged.’

  He grunted. Heavy-duty sweater and jeans, both clean. Velcroed trainers, also clean. He was a very clean, old – no, perhaps not quite so old – gentleman. He had the faintly Edwardian look Bea associated with successful private school headmasters. Authority, knowledge and a pragmatic outlook on a less than perfect world.

  ‘I’m busy. More than she is. I compile crossword puzzles for a living.’

  ‘Really? Did you know she has a magic eye for anagrams?’

  A hard stare. ‘For the tabloids?’

  ‘The Times.’

  ‘Ah. You used the word “dead”?’

  ‘Yes. She needs help, and you’re the only person in the flats whom she can trust.’

  He thought about that. His jaw worked. ‘Momi.’

  ‘Yes. Will you help?’

  ‘That husband of hers. There’s a rumour that he’s left her?’

  ‘I’m really not sure what’s going on there.’

  ‘Stupid girl,’ he said, shaking his head. Did he mean Lady O or Bea? It was an advance on ‘bimbo’, anyway. ‘Momi,’ he said, and his eyes took on a faraway look. Then he nodded. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘My card.’ She handed one over.

  He inspected it and said, ‘I’ll turn off the computer and go up there straight away.’ He closed the door in her face, and she rang the bell for the lift.

  The lift failed to arrive. Bea rang the bell again. Perhaps someone was already using it? Yes, she could hear the faint whirr of its machinery. Bea looked at her watch. She really must get back to the office. She considered walking down the stairs. Six flights. Ugh.