False Alarm

by Veronica Heley

  ‘She has no need to fear anything now I’ve gone.’ He seemed to believe it.

  Bea told herself to check his background. Did he, perhaps, have another woman in mind? ‘It must be a comfort to her that you’ve left your portrait behind, which you wouldn’t have done if you’d really abandoned her. Or would you? Your departure has left her in an exposed position.’

  ‘That was not my intention.’ He seemed to make up his mind to be frank. ‘To tell the truth, I think she’s overreacted. I suggested we move into the Dorchester for the time being. I said that we could make the excuse that we need the penthouse redecorated. She refused to leave, became almost hysterical. She’ll calm down in a few days, I’m sure.’ He pushed his empty soup plate aside and reached for the open sandwiches. ‘Do help yourself.’

  Bea considered that when people say they’re going to tell the truth about something, it usually means they’re going to lie. So who was lying in this instance? Sir Lucas, or Lady O? She said, ‘I know fear when I see it. She’s afraid.’

  He shook his head. ‘She has no need. I am well guarded here.’ He frowned, undecided whether to choose smoked salmon or Stilton.

  ‘For a clever man, you are being . . . obtuse. She’s afraid because she’s not at all sure the booby trap was meant for you. The other incidents—’

  ‘Kids playing around. Would you pour me some mineral water?’

  ‘The other incidents have escalated into violence. You were fortunate not to have suffered more serious injuries.’

  ‘It hasn’t affected my brain.’

  ‘No talk of concussion?’ asked Bea, with a sweet expression.

  Did he flush? Yes. He tore a bunch of grapes apart. Seedless grapes, of course. There should have been some scissors with them. Or didn’t his staff see the need for such refinement?

  ‘She’s afraid of being left alone in the flat,’ said Bea, ‘and that’s why she wants Maggie back.’

  Lucas met her stare. ‘I did say that if she didn’t want to go to the Dorchester, she could always move in here with me, but she refused.’

  ‘Of course she did. Not her scene, and you know it. But she shouldn’t be left on her own.’

  A gentle, iron-hard smile. ‘She is in no danger. I did warn her, by the way, that Maggie might not be available.’

  ‘Lady Ossett has a good line in emotional blackmail. Last night Maggie was prepared to throw up everything to return to her mother’s side.’

  ‘Ah. Until you intervened?’

  ‘I pay you the compliment of knowing what sort of work Maggie does, and why she can’t easily lay it down.’

  ‘You’ve given her a good start in business; her own office and staff.’

  Bea paused with the last of a smoked salmon titbit on the way to her mouth. ‘You’ve been making enquiries about me?’

  ‘Naturally. My wife has always been worried about the girl, and I heard all about the problem daughter from the moment I came on the scene. Maggie’s disastrous marriage! And then a non-job at your agency – where I suppose she must sorely have tried your patience – and finally the move into project management which has turned out well, for which I must thank you. Yes, of course I’ve kept an eye on her and on you. May I congratulate you on the way you’ve developed what was once a very small concern? I believe you’re now considering a merger with another firm?’

  Bea was disturbed to find he knew so much about her. ‘No doubt you’d advise against it?’

  A gentle smile. He was pleased to have riled her. ‘I wouldn’t dream of offering advice – unless you asked for it.’

  Bea gritted her teeth. She would not ask. Definitely not. She helped herself to some mineral water and wondered if coffee would arrive soon. ‘Meantime, your wife needs someone to hold her hand until this business of the vandalism – or whatever it is – can be sorted out. I understand why you don’t wish to go to the police for the moment, and I’m glad you’ve taken on board the reason why Maggie can’t drop everything to be with her mother. So what are the alternatives? If Lady Ossett doesn’t wish to leave her home, may I suggest a paid companion, someone who plays bridge and knows where all the best shops are? Or maybe you could send her on a cruise or a shopping trip to New York?’

  His eyes became diamond points. ‘You persist in thinking the problem lies in the building?’

  ‘Yes.’ Bea got out her phone, accessed the pictures she’d taken of the tack holes in the staircase, and handed it over to him. ‘Evidence of malice aforethought, don’t you think? Consider this; it would be difficult if not impossible for an outsider to gain access to the building in order to booby trap your stairs.’

  He rose with some difficulty to take the phone over to the window to get a closer look. Standing with his back to her, he said, ‘Access to the building?’ He sounded as if he were thinking of something else. ‘Well, it can be done. You wait till someone enters the building legitimately and follow them in.’ He shut up her mobile phone and returned it to her with a social, unmeaning smile.

  ‘This prankster knew where you lived in the building? There are no names on the letter boxes in the foyer, only numbers. How did this person know where you lived, unless one of the tenants told them? Surely you ought to turn your head of security loose on the flats, rather than on your ambitious executives? How do you think any one of them could have accessed the building if they hadn’t had an accomplice inside?’

  ‘How much do you charge?’

  ‘What?’ She recoiled. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘That’s not what I heard.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘A mutual friend.’ Another of his gentle-seeming smiles. ‘A man I know who has a formidable range of contacts.’

  Bea was taken aback. Did he mean that he was acquainted with her old friend CJ Cambridge, who was something hush-hush in one of the ministries, and who certainly knew a great many people? True; CJ had known Bea for years and had taken an interest in her young protégé, Oliver. Would CJ have talked to Lucas without warning Bea that he had done so? Surely not.

  Lucas was removing himself from the table, glancing at his watch. His PA and the girl in black had returned and busied themselves removing all evidence of lunch.

  ‘Mrs Abbot, I have a meeting in five minutes. Suppose you ask your toy boy to move in with—’

  ‘What! I have no—!’

  ‘What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. I’ve been keeping an eye on your clever young man – what’s his name? – Oliver. I’m always interested in talented mathematicians. He’s due to come down from university for the holidays soon, isn’t he? My wife will teach him how to play bridge and show him off to all her friends. He won’t object to being thought a toy boy, will he?’

  ‘Strongly, I should think.’

  ‘Then we must soothe him with some sort of pourboire. Perhaps he’d like to go round our IT department, discuss what openings there might be here for him. Also, I’d be happy to pay him a consultant’s fee if he can discover who’s been helping someone to put me in the morgue.’

  Bea opened her mouth to object and closed it again. There was too much going on, in too short a space of time.

  As to his suggestion about drawing Oliver into his net, she didn’t like it at all but didn’t know how to counter it. He was one powerful man, and she had a sneaking suspicion he was a lot brighter than her. This suggestion would let Maggie off the hook, but . . .

  She said, knowing she sounded weak and hating herself for it, ‘I’ll ask him but I can’t promise anything.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear.’ He lifted her hand to his lips, air-kissing it. Now where had he learned that? With a wide smile, he produced a memory stick and pressed it on her. ‘I think you’ll find all you need on this.’

  His PA was holding out Bea’s coat. The interview was over. She had a cold feeling at the back of her neck. She’d been outgunned, outmanoeuvred and outsmarted. She’d made a crass mistake earlier on by suggesting that Lady O had a toy boy, and she’d apolog
ized to Lady O for it. Sir Lewis had used the same tactic on her and not apologized at all.

  An idea struggled into the forefront of her mind. He’d carefully researched his wife’s family circumstances, so he’d have researched the background of the people who dwelt in the block of flats in which he’d made his home . . . wouldn’t he? Which meant that he knew everything about everybody who lived there.

  The PA was holding the door open for Bea to leave, but she hesitated. ‘What about the redhead in the fur coat?’

  He was amused. ‘Ms Carmela Lessbury. Flat number seven. Visiting hours by arrangement. Do you really suspect her?’

  ‘In your shoes, I would. What about the others?’

  ‘I leave it to you to discover who might wish me harm.’ He nodded to his PA, and Bea found herself gently urged out of the room. The door gently, soundlessly, finally closed behind her. A blonde personal assistant was waiting in the foyer to usher Bea into the lift. She wondered how he summoned members of his staff when he needed them. Perhaps everything said in his office was recorded and listened to by one of his security team?

  A large man was lurking at the elevators. He was not in uniform but his hefty build and blank gaze screamed ‘Security’. He wouldn’t be the head of security, of course. A minion, merely. There were probably spy cameras everywhere, recording every movement made on the top floor. On other floors, too?

  Bea shivered. She wouldn’t like to live like that. It occurred to her that Lewis lived like one of the Roman emperors, always aware of plots and counterplots against him, knowing that ambitious executives were watching and waiting for him to show a moment of weakness so that they could clamber over his dead body to take his place. Power brought its own problems, didn’t it?

  Once outside in the street she debated whether to hail a taxi or to take the tube. Traffic was gridlocked so she opted to walk to the nearest Underground station, accessing CJ on her mobile phone as she walked along.

  Luckily he was able to take the phone call, which wasn’t always the case since he was often tied up in court, or in chambers. It occurred to her that if he’d lived in Tudor times, he’d probably have been a member of the Star Chamber, the equivalent of today’s MI5 or whatever they called it nowadays.

  ‘CJ? Bea here. I’ve just had the most extraordinary meeting with Sir Lucas Ossett, who claims to know you well.’

  ‘Hrrmph. In a manner of speaking, yes. We move in the same circles.’

  ‘Has he been asking for information about me?’

  ‘Not exactly. He was concerned about his stepdaughter, and I was happy to inform him she had found an appropriate home with you.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Some time ago. It was only natural that he be concerned. It does him credit, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose so. Well, he wouldn’t have wanted Maggie under foot when he married her mother.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘No, probably not. Oliver had only just left school when he and Maggie came to live with me, but Sir Lucas has informed me that he knows the boy is doing well at university, so he must have been keeping himself up to date about us. Has he applied to you recently for information? Within the last week, say?’

  ‘It is information in the common domain.’

  ‘Within the last two days?’

  ‘Mm. It is possible.’

  ‘And you told him I’d investigated a murder for you in the past?’

  ‘I wasn’t as specific as that, no. He seemed to be very knowledgeable, has many contacts, I assure you that I—’

  ‘I don’t like him.’

  ‘Really?’ CJ almost purred. ‘Now, that might be unfortunate.’

  She exhaled. ‘I didn’t know I was going to say that, but it’s true; I don’t. You owe him something?’

  ‘No, no. But there are wheels within wheels—’

  ‘He wants me to discover who’s been trying to encompass his death. Do you have any idea what that would entail? There is no way I can infiltrate the Praetorian Guard, which is set up solely to guard the Emperor at his headquarters. And if he thinks he can get Oliver to do so . . . Surely you wouldn’t want to put Oliver’s life in danger?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Annoyed. ‘But Oliver’s perfectly capable of identifying the culprit in the flats if he can get access to his or her computer.’

  ‘He’d need a search warrant for that.’

  ‘Mm . . . possibly not. Surely none of the tenants would wish to obstruct Sir Lucas if he wishes to have a sight of what is on their computers?’

  ‘That’s some pressure! Almost, blackmail. “Please, sir; can I look at your private papers to see if there’s anything there which might incriminate you?”’

  ‘Now you’re overreacting.’

  ‘I don’t think so. By the way, Lady Ossett is terrified of being left alone.’

  ‘Is she, now? That’s interesting. And gives you a perfect excuse to delve into the doings of the other tenants.’

  ‘Using Oliver as bait? I’m not convinced that I should or could—’

  ‘It would be a pity if Sir Lucas were to lose the confidence of the markets at this particular time. He has the ear of some very important people.’

  Bea pulled a face. ‘Got a member of Parliament or two in his pocket, eh? I don’t think I want to know.’

  ‘Oblige me by obliging him, Bea. There’s a certain bill coming up in Parliament next session which we would like to have passed without too much comment.’

  She gritted her teeth. ‘Give me one good reason why—’

  ‘Will you join me for supper one evening soon? I’ve heard of a rather pleasant restaurant not far away and would be glad of your opinion – and your company, of course.’

  ‘Grrr.’ She shut the phone off with a click and took the steps down to the Underground station.

  FOUR

  Thursday afternoon

  Bea was still fizzing with rage when she turned into the road in which she lived . . . and halted in mid-stride.

  Her important member of parliament son’s car was parked outside her house. Of course she was delighted to see him. It gave her a lift of the heart to think he’d come to visit her . . . followed by a downturn of spirits when she remembered that he didn’t usually call on her unless he wanted something.

  She picked up her pace. Perhaps there was something amiss with her adorable grandson, whom she could never see often enough? But no, she’d have heard if that was the case. Anyway, Parliament had broken up for the winter recess and his mother had taken him up to her parents’ house where he’d be spoiled rotten, the little love. Bea had handed her Christmas presents over to them last week before they left.

  Max had said he was staying on this week for some urgent parliamentary business. All Max’s business was of the utmost, if not national, importance . . . according to Max. But surely he’d said he was going up north to join his family this weekend?

  Perhaps he was bringing Bea an extra present?

  Don’t get your hopes up, girl. He’d have asked his wife to send a hamper over as usual, and it wouldn’t even be from Harrods. He wanted something.

  As she got out her front door key, Bea looked up at the big sash windows of her living room, half expecting to see him standing there, waiting for her, as he used to do in the years after her first husband had left them and she’d had to struggle to bring Max up on her own. What a nice boy he’d been! He’d promised that when he grew up she would never have to go out to work again, that he’d take care of everything for her.

  Ah well. Their fortunes had changed for the better when she went to work for her dear Hamilton at the agency, because he’d married her and adopted Max. When Hamilton had succumbed to cancer, there’d still been no need for Max to provide for her since she then had the agency to run. Max had got into parliament and married into a politically minded and influential family, so he now moved in different circles.

  There’d be no clingy, tearful small boy looking out for her today. In
stead, he met her in the hallway.

  Once upon a time he’d been described as tall, dark and handsome, but good living and insufficient exercise was padding out his figure and blurring the lines of his face. ‘Where have you been?’ Checking his watch. ‘I have a meeting in twenty minutes.’

  She found herself apologizing. ‘Sorry. Something came up. Have you time for a coffee?’ She dumped her handbag in the kitchen – no sign of Maggie, of course – and put the kettle on.

  ‘No. Oh, maybe.’ A frown. Banished by a smile. ‘I called round to see how you were getting on with the contract for Holland and Butcher. I understand you haven’t signed it yet, and I thought you might need some help with it.’

  Bea gritted her teeth. Why did her son persist in thinking a woman would be unable to read a contract? Was it only his mother whom he treated like this? Surely he didn’t talk down to all women in this way?

  ‘I am looking at it very carefully, yes. Did you say you had time for a coffee?’

  ‘And a slice of cake, if you have one.’

  ‘You can have a biscuit. I haven’t done any baking this week. Too busy.’

  His expression indicated displeasure. What! Couldn’t she even spare the time to bake a cake in case he might call in and feel peckish? After all, what else did she have to do with her time?

  ‘Too busy to sign the contract? Isn’t it to your advantage as an employment agency to tie up with a renowned training establishment for domestic staff? What are you holding out for?’

  She sighed. Made a cafetière of coffee, found him a mug, sugar and milk. ‘They want me to become a director of their firm, and in return they’d like to propose someone from their board of directors to become a director of this agency. I’d prefer a looser arrangement. They could recommend their graduates to us, and we would try to find them suitable jobs. I see no need for a contract.’

  ‘They want closer ties. They want – no, they need – you to be more involved with their day-to-day business, to oversee and improve their training methods. You have a good manageress here, so why not oblige them by going over there a couple of days a week? You’d be sure then of getting the right sort of person for the agency.’