False Alarm

by Veronica Heley

  He gulped coffee, reached for the biscuit tin. ‘In return, they could appoint someone to advise you on the, well, larger issues, marketing strategy, perhaps some advertising slots in television.’

  She narrowed her eyes. How did he know so much? Had he been discussing her agency with them? And if so, why? She prevaricated. ‘I’ll have to think about it. Marketing, advertising; aren’t we doing well enough as it is? Television slots? They’re not really my scene. And there’s something in the small print that’s been nagging at me.’

  An indulgent smile for a woman verging on her second childhood. ‘Show me what it is, and I’ll explain it to you.’

  ‘Why are you so interested?’

  ‘I don’t like to see you throw away a good business proposition.’ A lie. He must be involved in some way. Oh dear. Had he been bribed to get the contract signed? What a nasty thought. But it clung to the back of her mind.

  She said, fearing he wouldn’t understand, ‘Apart from anything else, I’m not at all sure I want to work with that firm. I accept that Mr Holland was responsible for building the business up in the past, but I don’t believe he has a firm enough hand on the tiller nowadays. He’s getting on in years. He allowed his previous managing director to run the business into the ground and only sacked him when he turned out to be a scoundrel of the first water. I know he’s appointed a new MD, but it’s a question of trust. What if bad habits were to creep in again? Would Mr Holland notice? Or do anything about it, if he did?’

  ‘That wouldn’t happen because you’d be around to see that it didn’t.’

  ‘I’m not the keeper of their conscience, Max.’ She tried to smile. ‘It’s almost as if they want me to join their board and be responsible for what happens to them.’

  An uneasy silence. Was that really what was at the back of their minds? Was this contract the thin end of the wedge? Did they want her on their board with a view, eventually, to a full-scale merger? Mr Holland must now be knocking seventy, was perhaps getting tired of running the business. Did he, perhaps, want to sell out to her? Would that be feasible?

  Well, it might be. But where would she get the money from to buy them out, and could she see herself running a training college as well as the agency?

  It would be a huge step up in the world, but did she want that sort of responsibility? No doubt the bank would . . . No, no. She’d be in debt for ever.

  And yet.

  The prospect dazzled and intimidated in equal proportions.

  Max drained the last of his coffee. ‘They want your expertise and are prepared to pay for it, that’s all. Now, I must be going. I really only dropped in to give you a couple of names for the guest list for your party. And don’t forget to invite Mr Holland and the other directors.’ He laid one of his cards on the table and wrote on the back of it.

  Ah, the party which Maggie was hoping to hold in the New Year. Bea could see her wish for it to be a small, intimate affair for friends and family disappearing. ‘Max, it’s not going to be a business “do”. I don’t want it tied to the contract.’

  ‘You’re not backing out of negotiations at this late stage, are you?’

  ‘Backing out?’ The feeling strengthened that he must have got involved in some way. But how? And why? Money? But . . . Oh dear. Try a delaying tactic. ‘I rather thought I’d ask CJ to have a look at the contract. See what he advises.’

  ‘That’s the ticket.’ Yet he was half-hearted in his farewell hug. ‘Ring me if you find there’s a problem, right?’

  She saw him off.

  All was quiet in the house. Maggie still hadn’t got back yet, which Bea hoped meant that her argument with the plumber had been resolved.

  She went down the stairs to the agency. All was quietly busy there. The new manageress was a treasure, clients were returning time and again, there were very few outstanding bills, and in the run-up to the Christmas holidays the agency’s services were required more and more often.

  Bea flicked through the messages left in a sheaf on her desk and on her answerphone and dealt with the ones that couldn’t wait.

  It was urgent that she speak to Oliver. She had a horrid feeling that CJ was going to push Oliver into the arms of the Vicori Corporation to serve his own ends, and she did not want that to happen. He was too young to realize that all that glitters is not gold, and that big corporations crunch up and digest promising young mathematicians before breakfast every day.

  She must get to him first.

  Oliver wasn’t answering his phone. She left a message.

  Next, Maggie . . . who answered her phone in a bright, don’t-bother-me-now voice. ‘Oh, it’s you? I’m a bit tied up, but I did pop round to see my mother before I came on here . . .’ Her voice faded as she spoke to someone in the room with her. ‘Yes, everything’s just fine, but . . . Just a minute. I promise I’ll be with you in a minute.’ And came back again. ‘My mother’s got a bridge party this afternoon. I said I’d pop in again to see her this evening, but I’ll come home for supper before then.’

  Bea said, ‘Yes, but—’

  Maggie switched off.

  Bea found the memory stick which Lucas had pressed upon her and inserted it into her computer. There was just one document on it, giving the names, addresses and phone numbers of the tenants in the building. There was a garage in the basement, then a semi-basement flat occupied by a caretaker-cum-handyman. There were two more flats on each of six floors . . . and then the penthouse, which was the only dwelling at the top. No details were given for the occupants of the penthouse.

  Bea thought about that, and she thought about Lucas and his . . . hubris? Was that the right word? Something lurked at the back of her mind about the skewed perception of the world that immense power gave to people at the top.

  Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely?

  Was Lucas corrupt?

  Was CJ being corrupted by some political ‘necessity’ to get a certain bill through parliament?

  It gave her a headache to think about it.

  She scrolled down through the names on the document and one of them rang a faint bell. No, she couldn’t think where or how. Possibly a client, from way back?

  Another thought. She accessed the Land Registry details and discovered that, yes, Lucas owned the freehold of the building. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? With his wealth he could afford to buy the property, which would no doubt appreciate in value as time went on. Neat.

  Bea tried Maggie again; but the girl didn’t pick up. She tried Oliver; likewise.

  She worked on agency matters till her manageress came in to say that they were shutting up for the night and was there anything . . .? Bea switched her mind to everyday matters and dealt with one or two queries that had cropped up. Nothing of earth-shattering importance; not like Maggie’s problem.

  Peace and quiet descended. Bea turned off her computer, checked that every door and window was locked and went up the stairs to draw the curtains in the living room . . . and to see what she could throw together for supper in the kitchen. Still no Maggie? She was usually home by now.

  Her landline rang. Maggie. ‘Sorry, so sorry. Got held up. I’m at my mother’s and she’s a bit weepy, so I said I’d stay the night, if that’s all right with you?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Bea, thinking that Lady O had managed to have people around for her bridge party that afternoon, and now had her daughter for the night.

  ‘Tarra, then,’ said Maggie and clicked off.

  There was a stir in the hall. The front door opened and a man shouted, ‘Hallo?’

  Oliver? But . . . what . . .?

  Bea scurried out to find him unloading his belongings from a hired car. ‘My dear boy!’

  He gave her a quick hug and waved the driver off.

  ‘Don’t we have to pay him?’ said Bea.

  ‘All paid for.’ He threw off his car coat and laughed down at her.

  Since when had he grown so tall that he looked down on her? He’d be
en a slender youth, but now he was filling out. Oliver was growing up fast. He was doing well at university, and she had a horrid feeling that he was growing away from her.

  ‘I’ll take my stuff up later. Meanwhile, I’ve time for a cuppa.’ He made a beeline for the kitchen and put the kettle on.

  She followed, thinking unpleasant thoughts. ‘CJ has been on the phone to you? He arranged a car to bring you home?’

  ‘He said you needed me to sort something out at the Vicori Corporation. He says that if I play my cards right, they’ll take me on the strength. The opportunities . . . The sky’s the limit! I can hardly believe I’m being offered . . . I’d never have dreamed, so soon! And it’s all thanks to CJ.’ He was beaming.

  She was not amused. Take this slowly, Bea. ‘Dear Oliver, why didn’t you ring me? Maggie’s staying at her mother’s overnight to keep her calm, and I’m not sure we’ve anything much in the freezer for supper.’

  ‘Not to worry. CJ suggested I go round there for a bite to eat so that he can fill me in on what’s been happening. He’ll give me a bed for the night and take me over to Lady Ossett’s for breakfast. I’ll keep her sweet tomorrow morning while Maggie goes off to work. Then I go into Vicori House in the afternoon. I’m to shadow the chief suspect as he goes about his work, something complicated in the business of buying energy from the Middle East. I’ll soon get the hang of it. Isn’t it exciting!’

  The kettle shrilled. Hands on automatic, she made a cafetière of coffee. ‘Did CJ tell you exactly why he wants to help Sir Lucas?’

  ‘Yes, yes. He’s known him a long time. Something to do with the European Court of Justice, he didn’t give me the details.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve only time for a quick cup of tea. Said I wouldn’t be late.’

  He wanted tea, not coffee. Was there enough water left in the kettle to make him a cup of tea? There wasn’t. Fill kettle. Keep calm. ‘CJ didn’t tell you Lucas has to be kept sweet, in order to push some bill or other through in the next session of parliament?’

  ‘Yes, yes. He said you didn’t like him. Honestly, Mother Hen . . .’ His nickname for her slipped out, but without its usual fondness.

  ‘He told you that I didn’t like him?’ She stared at Oliver. Stared inside herself. ‘I can’t justify my dislike.’ She shrugged, trying to minimize the damage her words had done. ‘First impressions. No doubt when I get to know him better . . .’

  ‘It’s not like you to be so hasty.’ He grinned at her; the superior smug smile of someone who knows much better than a woman old enough to be his mother – or even, in this case, his grandmother.

  ‘No, it’s not.’ The kettle boiled, and she poured water over a tea bag in his favourite mug. ‘I can’t explain it.’

  ‘I can.’ He gave her a quick hug, at the same time removing the mug from her hands. ‘I take it with lemon now, no milk. Have we got any lemons?’

  She got one out of the fridge for him.

  He said, smiling, sharing a splendid secret with her, ‘You’ve been everything to me since you picked me out of the gutter. You’ve fed me and scolded me and taught me everything you know. You’ve sent me to university and been better than a mother to me. Now that I’m grown up and moving into the great wide world, now that other people are beginning to take an interest in my career, I do understand that you can’t help feeling, well, left behind.’

  She stared at him. Was there any truth in what he said? Could she be that self-centred that she didn’t want anyone else to help him climb the ladder of success?

  No, surely not. She looked deep into herself and grimaced. Perhaps there was an element of that in her stand against Lucas? But her main objection remained; she neither liked nor trusted the man.

  Had CJ insinuated these doubts about Bea’s position into Oliver’s head? If so, how very, very clever of him, because Bea didn’t know how to counter them.

  She must, however, try.

  ‘Look at it from my point of view, Oliver. You’ve been doing marvellously well at university. You are only in your second year, but already they’re asking you to take on research in this and that. If you leave now—’

  ‘Opportunities like this don’t come along every day. Most people would give their eye teeth for a chance to join Vicori, and I’m not letting anything stand in my way. You don’t really want me to refuse him, do you?’ He could use charm as others used butter.

  ‘A man like Lucas doesn’t think as you or I do. He uses people, rewarding and discarding them at will. I suspect that if he finds out – when he finds out – which of his executives is seeking to supplant him, there’ll be a bloodbath—’

  An amused smile. ‘Now you’re going too far.’

  She wasn’t getting through to him. She tried again. ‘Oh, it will be a sanitized affair. A convenient accident, or a depression leading to suicide. I’m sure no one will be more sorry than he to lose a valued member of his team.’

  ‘Ridiculous!’ He put his arm around her to give her a hug and gulped down the rest of his tea. ‘You won’t mind if I leave most of my stuff in the hall for tonight, will you? I’ll only need my overnight bag for now. Is it all right if I borrow the car?’

  ‘Sorry. No. I need it.’ She didn’t. She felt a pang of contrition at having lied to him, but she was too annoyed with him to let him have it. Besides, if he took it now to meet up with CJ for supper, he’d take it over to Lady O’s tomorrow and then on into the City. And where would he park it? Was he going to be given a parking slot at Vicori House?

  No, it was her car, and she needed it. Probably. What she really meant was that she was cross with him and didn’t want to lend him her car.

  He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll walk round there then; it’s probably the quickest. See you at the weekend, right?’

  She made one last effort. ‘Before you go; I may be quite wrong about Lucas – I hope I am for your sake – but he can afford the very best lawyers and you can’t. If he asked you to sign something, anything, would you get CJ to vet it first?’

  ‘Oh, really!’

  ‘I’m serious. Also, I think his office is bugged, probably so that he doesn’t need to take notes of any conferences he has there, so—’

  ‘You’re way off the planet!’

  ‘Keep your eyes open, that’s all I ask. And keep your eyes open at Lady O’s. Remember there’s a killer about!’

  He wasn’t listening. He was off, and she was left to think how badly she’d handled the interview. For instance, would it really matter that she didn’t like Lucas if he was prepared to further Oliver’s career? Working for a man didn’t mean you had to like him. Loads of people didn’t have a choice in the matter of their boss; he existed, and they toed the line or else.

  But she could imagine a scenario in which Oliver was demoted for some reason or other and ended up at the bottom of the anthill, staring at a computer in a prescribed space . . . rather like a battery hen. Feed, sleep, produce. Die.

  She shuddered. Decided she didn’t want to drink any of the coffee she’d made, put Oliver’s mug in the dishwasher and rummaged in the freezer for a frozen meal. Cauliflower cheese. It would have to do. Microwave it. Tidy the kitchen while it cooked. Eat it at the counter. Fend off their big, black, hairy cat. ‘Winston! No!’

  Winston gave her a fat grin and lifted one paw in a begging movement. He was as full of charm as Oliver.

  She fed Winston and removed herself to the living room, which ran from front to back of the house. Large sash windows at the front overlooked the street, while at the back a pair of French windows let out on to a cast-iron balcony with a spiral staircase leading down to the courtyard. Because of the slope on which the house was built, the agency occupied semi-basement rooms at the front of the house while her office at the back led straight out on to the garden.

  She checked that all the windows were locked and the curtains tightly drawn against the damp, chill night. There was an almost full moon over the spire of the church.

  She was restless.
Eventually, she sat down at the table by the windows at the back of the living room and took out her patience cards. Her dear husband Hamilton had been accustomed to sit there of an evening, his hands moving the cards around while he pondered this and that . . . or prayed in silence.

  Now his portrait looked down on her. Round-faced, wise . . . she missed him so much. He seemed to be saying, ‘Patience.’

  She threw the pack of cards down, halfway through laying out a game.

  Patience. Ugh. Not her scene.

  But necessary, perhaps? If she couldn’t alter what was happening . . .?

  There wasn’t anything she could do about it, was there?

  Hm. Well. Perhaps there was, though it was a long shot and probably wouldn’t get her anywhere.

  Why bother, then?

  Because even if it didn’t get her anywhere, at least she’d have done everything she could to avert what seemed to her to be a looming catastrophe.

  She went back down the stairs and into her office. Switched her computer on. She’d saved the information on the memory stick in a document. Accessed it. Now . . . where was that name she thought she recognized?

  Mm. Mm. No? No. Ah, there!

  She ran the names through the agency’s client list. No, the name she thought she’d remembered didn’t match. She nearly gave up. This was the sort of thing which Oliver excelled at. There was, however, one name which stood out on Sir Lucas’ list because of its plethora of initials. L.A.M. Emerson. Reading ‘lame’. But not at the right address.

  Bea stared at the screen, wondering. People did move. They moved into a better address when their husbands got promotion. They downsized when grown-up children left home or their spouse decamped or they lost their jobs or whatever. They kept their phone numbers if they could.

  It was five years since the agency had supplied Mrs Emerson with a chef and silver service waitresses for a party of twelve at an address in Knightsbridge. A party of twelve indicated a spacious dining-room which was a luxury in today’s terms. A far cry from the two or three bedroom apartment in Lucas’s building. Perhaps the husband had died since that memorable party. Would she still have the same telephone number? Bea returned to the list supplied by Sir Lucas. No, the phone number was different.