False Diamond - An Abbot Agency Mystery

by Heley, Veronica

  ‘You don’t think you are wrong?’

  She shook her head, running her finger round her plate to collect stray crumbs. ‘Tea would be best after that, I think. Shove the tea caddy over, will you?’

  ‘What about the other members of the Holland family?’

  She screwed up her eyes. ‘The sister, Sybil. Tough as old boots. Lives mainly in the States. Judging by the way she behaved over the question of Dilys’s diamond ring, I’d say she’d be pretty vocal about Benton’s bad behaviour, but not put herself out very much to interfere. She’d arrange for Dilys to be put in contact with a divorce lawyer, perhaps? Yes, she’d do that. Would she have the contacts to find a hit man over here? I doubt it.’

  ‘She’s too old or too much a stranger to order a murder?’

  ‘Sounds odd, but yes; I think that’s about it. She might put herself out for Bernice, Dilys’s daughter, but not to any great extent. Yes, she’s taken the child in and bought her some new clothes, but as far as I can make out she’s got a maid or nursemaid called Maria to look after the little girl’s daily needs. As the child grows up …? Yes, I can see Sybil taking more of an interest in her then, perhaps even using her as a sort of companion.’

  The inspector reached for some kitchen towel to mop himself up. ‘Scrub Sybil, subject to further information. Yes, I’ll have a mug of tea. Thanks. So how about Leon?’

  ‘Hard to say. He’s not a Londoner, and he refuses to get involved with H & B, but he’s been running errands for his brother, popping up all over the place. I can’t see him getting worked up over Dilys’s disappearance. In fact, I’ve tried pushing him into action there, and he stonewalls. I query whether he gives a hoot for her or the child. Yes, he did his best to save Dilys’s life, but rather as a passer-by might give emergency attention to the victim of a roadside accident. He did persuade his sister to look after Bernice, but I don’t think he’s had much contact with the child since.’

  Bea made two mugs of tea, added milk, and pushed one over to the inspector. ‘Are you allowed to ask a child as young as Bernice about these things?’

  ‘In the presence of a suitable adult.’

  ‘Does she know that her father and brothers are dead?’

  ‘She should have been told by now.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You mentioned that the Holland’s chief accountant had committed suicide. May I ask how you came by that information?’

  ‘Leon, or his sister, mentioned it. So it is relevant?’

  ‘Could be. The chief accountant had a second-in-command called Adamsson, who would normally have taken over when she committed suicide. Unfortunately, he’d been sacked the week before, following a major row involving her and Benton. We’d like to talk to Adamsson, as you can imagine, but he seems to have disappeared. We think he might have gone abroad, in which case it depends where. There’s no extradition from some countries, as you know. Have you ever come across him?’

  She shook her head. ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Pernickety, they say. Full of righteous indignation. An angry little man.’

  ‘You think he might have killed Benton? But why? And why would he kill the boys?’

  The inspector shrugged. ‘I have to keep an open mind.’

  They sipped tea in silence.

  He said, ‘You personally favour a verdict of suicide?’

  A shrug. ‘I haven’t the faintest. You’ve got his laptop and his papers. They ought to give you an insight into his state of mind. If it were just him who’d been killed, I’d say it was odds-on he’d been done in by someone he upset at work, such as this man Adamsson. Benton wasn’t a good boss, and I’m told he was in the process of reorganizing the firm, sacking some people, promoting others. A seething hotbed of conjecture and wounded pride awaits you at H & B. But to kill the children as well …? Would an aggrieved employee do that?’

  ‘So you would go for suicide?’

  She stacked plates and cutlery in the dishwasher. ‘I can’t see any other way it could have been, but I’m not happy about it.’

  ‘Neither am I.’ He put his empty mug down. ‘It’ll be all over the papers, I’m afraid. “Devoted father kills himself and sons after wife’s suicide attempt.”’

  Bea’s mouth twisted into an attempt at a smile. ‘You’ve missed out the “Shock, Horror!” element that’s needed for a headline. How about, “Dad takes boys to join Mum in death.”’

  He tried to cap that. ‘“Mum’s suicide prompts Dad’s death?”’

  ‘You’ve missed out the sons.’

  He slapped his forehead. ‘“Mum’s suicide prompts family’s death.”’

  She tried not to laugh. ‘What bad taste! Both of us.’

  ‘Sometimes we have to make horrible jokes, or we’d start bashing our heads against the wall.’

  Yes, she knew all about that. She checked the time. ‘I have a client waiting downstairs for me.’

  ‘And I’m due somewhere … Thanks for the tea and sympathy.’

  Bea saw the inspector out and went downstairs to see how her august client was getting on … only to find her, glasses askew, fast asleep on the settee. Bea rustled papers on her desk, and the sleeper awoke, sort of.

  Bea pretended not to notice that her client was going through the usual ‘Where am I?’ bit, resettling her glasses on her nose, checking that her skirt was straight. Her records were on the computer. Bea checked them out. The agency had supplied a well-recommended personal assistant some ten years ago, who had only left in order to nurse her mother through the last few months of her life. Afterwards the assistant had wanted a complete change and had asked the agency to find her a job abroad, which they had done. Bea had no record of supplying another PA to this client, but it was unlikely this august and busy personage would have been able to manage without help. Perhaps that was the reason for this visit? Except that such a request might have been made by phone or email. There was more to this than met the eye.

  When she saw the client was sitting upright and knew where she was, Bea said, ‘Apologies for keeping you waiting. May I offer you another cup of tea?’

  ‘No, no, my dear. I’m sure it is I who ought to be apologizing to you.’

  ‘Anything I can do …?’

  ‘I know you can be discreet?’

  Bea nodded, thinking that she ought perhaps to add ‘moral’ or ‘ethical’ to the agency’s slogan on their letterheads and in their advertisements.

  ‘A favour. We did not come to you for assistance when my last dear helper left, because my husband found someone through an advertisement in the Telegraph. He was very taken with the girl who, it must be acknowledged, is a comely creature.’

  There was a slight pause while both women reflected that elderly gentlemen might occasionally be less than avuncular to pretty young things who came to work for them.

  Bea nodded. She could read the future as well as her client. If the elderly husband fell too hard for the newcomer, there might be a distressing breakdown in a long and happy marriage, perhaps even a divorce and remarriage. Would that make the man happy? Sigh. Probably, for a fortnight or so. And then, not.

  ‘She provided references, of course?’

  ‘Written references,’ said the lady, ‘which he did not follow up with telephone enquires. He has been so accustomed to your vetting applicants for us that he failed to realize that not all written references are genuine.’

  ‘You think they were faked?’

  The lady was not prepared to go that far. She fiddled with her rings – very good rings, diamonds and sapphires. ‘One never knows if they’re telling the truth or not when they give their reasons for leaving their previous employment. It’s not that she’s been a disappointment in her work, though she’s not a patch on the girl before her, and she’s becoming increasingly apt to disregard anything I say. Almost rude, in fact. But I could deal with that if I didn’t feel that by doing so, I might be shooting myself in the foot.’

  Bea understood that the elderly husband was beginning t
o take the part of the PA against his wife. Oh.

  The client produced some letters from her handbag and handed them over. ‘She says she’s worked for these people in Yorkshire and a couple in Kensington who all laud her to the skies. I don’t know either of them or I would have had a quiet chat … and now, I’m so afraid that …’

  ‘Say no more,’ said Bea. She glanced at the clock. ‘I have ten minutes before my next appointment. Could you bear to wait while I see if I can contact one of these people?’

  ‘Thank you, my dear. I’d be grateful. The girl’s got such a silly name. Baptized Christine, but now calls herself Christobel. As if!’

  Bea froze. Christine to Christobel.

  What name had Ginevra been born with?

  She turned back to her computer. Yes, the people in Kensington were also clients of hers, silver service for an anniversary dinner party once a year and for a drinks party in their garden every Midsummer’s day. Four children under the ages of fifteen. Why had this client needed a personal assistant? Well, there was only one way to find out. Bea dialled their number and was fortunate enough to find the client there.

  Bea introduced herself and apologized for bothering the client, but … ‘I’ve a client who was approached by a certain Christobel—’

  A shriek from the other end of the phone. ‘That tart! Don’t give her the time of day, Mrs Abbot. She came to us as an au pair when I was having a problem with the twins, but she was nothing but trouble from the word go. She could hardly tear herself away from Facebook to fetch the kids from school, and then I had my husband drooling all over her because she’s a pretty little thing if you like the sort who spends more time flirting with visitors than emptying the dishwasher. The last straw came when I found her trying to get into bed with my fifteen-year-old son. I shot her out of the door before you could say knife, and believe me, if I’d had a knife in my hand at the time, there would have been blood on the carpet.’

  ‘So you didn’t give her a good written reference?’

  ‘I said if she went for another job and the employer rang me, I’d be happy to tell what I knew of the girl.’

  ‘Would you be kind enough to speak to someone who had been given your name as a reference for Christobel?’

  ‘Would I!’

  Bea passed the phone over and accessed Facebook with reference to dear little Christobel … and there she was, the minx. Cavorting – if that was the right word – with various young men in compromising fashion. X-rated, definitely.

  ‘Thank you so much. Most kind.’ The elderly client replaced the phone with a hand that shook.

  Bea turned her computer screen round so that Christobel’s activities could be shared with her client. ‘Facebook. With a number of young men.’

  The client blew her nose. ‘What a silly billy my old man has been. When I show him this … I wonder if he knows how to access Facebook?’ Even her voice quavered.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Bea, in a dulcet tone, ‘you could ask Christobel to show you how?’

  An amused smile. ‘That might indeed be sufficient to show her the game was up, yes. But I fear he will have to see the evidence for himself.’ She straightened her back. ‘Well, these things are sent to try us. I’m grateful, Mrs Abbot. I won’t insult you by asking if you’ll keep this to yourself, because I know that you will. So, as my assistant is about to leave, perhaps you can find me someone else?’

  ‘Delighted. Fair, fat and forty?’

  The client had enough spirit left to laugh.

  Carrie knocked and put her head round the door. ‘Your half-past three appointment, Mrs Abbot.’

  Bea helped Her Ladyship into her coat and saw that she had collected all her belongings before accompanying her to the front door. ‘Would you like us to get you a taxi?’

  ‘Yes, dear. Thank you. I hate driving in London nowadays.’

  Carrie said, ‘I’ll arrange it, My Lady. If you’d like to take a seat here for a moment …?’

  Bea turned her mind to her next appointment with some difficulty. Business before pleasure.

  This time the client had a different problem for Bea to solve. A daughter’s wedding had had to be brought forward as her fiancé was due for another tour of duty in Afghanistan. Could Bea rearrange everything at such short notice …? Of course. With sympathy.

  As soon as the second client had gone, Bea re-entered Facebook and typed in the words ‘Ginevra Benton’.

  FIFTEEN

  Gotcha!

  Ginevra Benton, cavorting. A good word, cavorting. ‘See me dance, see me play. This is where I live. See how big my bed is. This is me on holiday, holiday, holiday … This is me with Ricky. Aren’t I cute?’

  Bea had assumed that Ginevra’s partner was a woman, but he wasn’t. Ricky was a big butch of a man with muscles out to here though possibly not as many brains as muscles. Ricky had a motorbike. See me perched on the pillion of Ricky’s motorbike.

  Yes!

  Ricky must be the man who’d menaced Bea on his motorbike. So if Ricky had been the biker, then who had been the passenger on Saturday night? Ginevra?

  Bea closed her eyes, the better to recall the image of the men who’d terrorized her.

  No. Not Ginevra. Not a woman.

  Are we back to thinking it was Benton? Yes. Possibly.

  A shame one couldn’t ask him now.

  Return to Facebook. Ginevra in different outfits, referencing her boutique, which was also – surprise! – called Ginevra. Her poses were seductive, showing off not so much the clothes, as the body within them.

  Ginevra had been on Facebook for some time. Bea scrolled back and back.

  And stopped. The trail ended – or rather began – when Ginevra opened her boutique in Wandsworth, full address given. On Twitter, etc.

  Bea googled Ginevra’s Boutique and came up lucky.

  Pictures of the shop’s fascia, and of Ginevra. None of Ricky.

  More pictures of Ginevra wearing different outfits. This time the clothes were more important than the body within them. So why wasn’t the partner shown?

  Perhaps Ricky had taken the pictures? They did look a cut above the average family photos.

  Ricky … who? What was his other name? Did he live with Ginevra? Why wasn’t his full name on Ginevra’s Boutique page?

  Mm. Try a different way in. Bea accessed the website which gave details of registered companies. She found the boutique, but no details. So it was not a registered company, and there were no shareholders or directors. Just a loose partnership?

  How could you find out? Bea stared the screen, wishing Oliver were still around because he was better at sorting these things out than she was … although she hadn’t done too badly, come to think of it.

  She got up to pace the floor. Look at it from a different angle. Perhaps Ricky had another career somewhere and just helped out in the boutique when required? Or did his biker stunt when required?

  Carrie tapped on the door. ‘Your next appointment?’

  Bea wrenched her mind away from the chase and turned a professional smile to her next visitor, telling herself to deal with life one step at a time.

  A complaint this time. Justified? Mm. Faults on both sides. Apply oil in large quantities, promise to investigate. And if it could be proved that the chef had been tipsy that night, then Bea promised he would never be used by her agency again. If. By the end of the interview, Bea was pretty sure the client was complaining solely to get a reduction in the bill. To be dealt with on the morrow.

  Back to Ginevra. Something her august visitor had said earlier struck a chord.

  If Christine had turned herself into Cristobel, and Ginevra had previously had another name, then what might that have been? Bea could well understand that the girl would have wanted to give herself an extravagant name if she were to open a boutique. People often kept the same initial or a similar-sounding name when they wanted an alias. How about ‘Jean’?

  Bea typed in ‘Jean Benton’, and lo and behold, up came th
e details for a person of this name.

  At least … No, it couldn’t be. Yes, this Jean had been born in 1983, which would make her thirty years old. Jean was about the right age, but the rest was nonsense. This could not be the right person. Bea told herself that she wasn’t as good at this lark as Oliver and that she’d made a poor guess when she’d gone for the name ‘Jean’.

  Carrie tapped on the door. ‘Your son is here and—’

  Max thrust past her into the room and slammed the door to behind him. He looked pretty dreadful. ‘I’ve left Nicole!’

  ‘What!’

  He threw a sports bag down and slumped into a chair. He hadn’t shaved with any accuracy, and the cuff of a shirt hung out of the sports bag.

  ‘She’s been having an affair!’

  Yes. Well. Anyone else would have tumbled to that ages ago. Bea had heard that the injured party was always the last to know. But what about his own shenanigans? He’d previously gone for blondes in a big way, but this last time it had been a redhead, hadn’t it? What was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander. Not that Max would see it that way. Men didn’t.

  Bea frowned at the door, as there was something going on in the outer office; laughter, even a cheer or two.

  Max was locked into self-pity. ‘To think that I trusted him. And her. It never occurred to me, but all the time he was making up to me, taking me for a sucker, he was having it off with her behind my back, making plans to take my place—’

  ‘Benton?’

  ‘Who else! Did you know, too? Mother, I can’t believe that you would know and not warn me—’

  ‘You didn’t want to know, Max. And any time I tried to tell you that Benton was not a saint, you bit my head off.’