‘My son. Will you sit?’ He gestured to one of two long, black, leather settees, each of which could have seated six people without any difficulty. ‘Some tea?’
Bea was awash with tea and coffee, but accepted with a bright smile. ‘That would be lovely.’ She took a seat beside Maggie.
Through the door came a rotund figure in a burka, mask and all, bearing a tray on which a fine china tea set was perched. Another, slighter figure, also in a burka, followed with a teapot and stand. They must have been on standby, waiting to hear if their lord and master was going to let Bea in or not. Tea had been prepared in advance, just in case.
‘My wife. My daughter. My name is Kamran. I have a jeweller’s shop in the High Street nearby. Perhaps you have seen it?’
‘I’m afraid not. I live some distance away. I imagine this is a good area for your business.’
‘It is well enough. My son and my nephews work behind the counter.’
‘Splendid,’ said Bea, wishing she could see the two women’s faces. She assumed that the roly-poly figure would be that of the mother, and the slim one would be the daughter? ‘We are honoured to be invited into your home.’
‘The honour is all ours.’ He gave a little bow to prove it. The women poured tea for the visitors and retired to sit on upright chairs at the back of the room.
Their host and his son seated themselves on the opposite settee. ‘Miss Maggie here has been telling us about your care for her, and of how you have been able to help the police with their enquiries in other cases. We do not concern ourselves with the comings and goings of the people who live in these flats. Some have been inquisitive beyond the bounds of politeness. Some have even been abusive.’
‘Of course,’ murmured Bea, trying to think who might have probed, and who might have been rude to these people. The two biddies would have been inquisitive, yes. Rudeness . . . Connor? Donald? Ah, the caretaker; that’s who!
‘We found the behaviour of the old woman on the ground floor and the attentions of the man called Harvey exceptionally difficult. For that reason my son and I usually come and go by the fire escape. I use my mobile phone at the end of the working day to advise my wife when she is to go down the stairs to let us back into the building. This avoids unwelcome encounters.’
Bea nodded. Of course. Which explained why Harvey hadn’t any photos of this man . . . although the women had been caught leaving the lift? Presumably, they had to come and go by the front door when the man was out, or they couldn’t get back into the building again. Did the man not appreciate that? She tried to catch their eyes, but could read nothing behind the masks they wore. She sipped tea, smiled, and remained attentive.
‘In our culture, women do not put themselves forward and offer advice to the police. Nor is it considered appropriate for them to interest themselves in such matters.’
Was he getting at her? Probably. She would rise above it. ‘I understand,’ she said, wondering how many generations it took for women from such families to become emancipated.
‘A woman’s testimony is worth only half as much a man’s. But we have discussed the matter, and I have agreed that my daughter will tell you what she knows of the death of the caretaker.’
Bea set her teacup down with care and turned to the silent pair sitting at the back. ‘You saw it happen?’
The two shrouded heads turned not to Bea, but to Kamran, who said, ‘My daughter suffers from a woman’s complaint if she doesn’t get enough exercise. It is out of the question for her to attend a gym, of course, and my son escorts her to and from the college where she is training to be a dietitian, but she cannot walk in the park by herself for fear of being accosted . . .’
You think she’d be accosted, wearing a burka? Bea tried to keep her face straight.
‘So I have bought her a cycling machine which she keeps on the balcony. Naturally, I have placed screens around the machine so that she cannot be observed while she is using it. I am a very modern father, you understand.’
‘Indeed,’ said Bea. ‘No one can see her, but she can see everything that happens outside.’
He was offended. ‘That was not the intention, naturally.’
‘Naturally. But nevertheless, if something chanced to catch her eye . . .?’
‘I do not listen to gossip. My wife and daughter . . . Chitter chatter, chitter chatter, all day long.’
But not when you’re around. Bea inclined her head and continued to smile.
‘However, as a man concerned with the well-being of my family, certain matters have been brought to my attention. I was seriously considering whether or not we should move. I do not know if, as a woman, you can understand this, but the terms of our contract would make that difficult. Let me explain; we could sublet, but—’
‘I understand perfectly,’ said Bea, through her teeth. ‘What exactly was it that upset you?’
‘I was not upset. I was . . . concerned.’
Bea inclined her head. ‘Perhaps your daughter might tell me, in her own words?’
‘I was coming to that.’ He was not to be diverted. ‘She observed the businessmen leaving the whore’s flat in the evenings by the back staircase . . .’
Carmela letting someone out who didn’t want to risk being seen? Sir Lucas? Evonne’s father?
‘She saw the cat come and go by the staircase. I do not care for cats so she did not let him in, or feed him . . .’
Bea suppressed a grin. Perhaps the daughter had, and perhaps not.
‘She saw Tariq inviting a man into his flat, night after night. Not one of us, but a West Indian boy, who we later heard was to be his partner . . .’
The word ‘partner’ was delivered with distaste.
‘She saw the two old women scurrying up and down the stairs on their errands of mercy . . . if you can call them that. At their age they should be looking after their grandchildren at home . . .’
The two biddies. So they used the fire escape a lot, did they? Well, why ever not?
‘She heard the breaking of glass, and the man Harvey screaming for attention, and she came to tell me of the problem . . . as if it was any business of ours, which it was not. My wife asked if she should go out to help him, but naturally that was out of the question. As I told them, the two old ladies would want to thrust their noses in without our having to be involved; which they did.’
Lucy and Carrie to the rescue. Of course.
‘Scurry, hurry. Up and down the stairs they went, shouting out to one another and asking where the caretaker might be, and we saw . . . Yes, I, my son, my wife and daughter all went to stand outside on the balcony and right above our heads we saw the caretaker come out on to the balcony from Tariq’s flat directly above us, in such a rage, using such language . . . I came back indoors, and I ordered my wife and my children to come in, too, but my daughter defied me! She stayed out there, listening to the words he was spitting out. As I told her, it was most unseemly.’
Bea shot a look at the two women. One had her head bent, the other stared straight ahead. Or so it seemed. How difficult it was to judge people’s reactions when you couldn’t see their faces!
‘She heard one of the old women go clattering up the staircase to interrupt the caretaker as he was sorting out the rubbish which Tariq, that man of no principle, had left behind, and—’ He turned to his daughter. ‘Tell her what you saw.’
The woman who’d held her head low, lifted it up and would have spoken, but her father intervened.
‘She could see everything, right above her head as she stood there in the doorway, where she was not supposed to be, as I have told her many times since. Right above her head there was the caretaker, ripping up a big cardboard box with his little knife, and the old woman was shouting, shouting at him to give her the keys, and he told her to . . . to go away, pardon my language, and she lashed out at him with her stick. Such violence! Oh, then at last my daughter understood that I was right, and that she should never have witnessed such an exhibition.’
‘No, indeed. That would have made her a witness to a crime, and Allah alone knows where that would have ended, with court appearances and a total disruption of family life, not to mention having her name appear in the papers, which would not improve her chances of marriage. As it is, I can only hope that this brush with violence will have taught her a lesson.’
Bea looked from him to the son, who was sitting at his side, nodding like a Chinese Mandarin figure. The son worked for his father and would inherit the shop one day. The son was not likely to make waves. Bea wondered if the girl would be better off in an arranged marriage. Who could tell?
Maggie was very quiet. Bea wondered what she was making of this.
Back to the murder. ‘What actually did your daughter see?’
‘See? She saw nothing. Have I not made that clear? Nothing, I tell you.’
Bea looked at the woman she supposed to be the daughter. ‘You really did not see anything?’
Her father intervened. ‘Have I not said? She was frightened, as a woman would be. She ran back inside, and she did not see the man fall from the balcony.’
Bea kept her eyes on the girl. ‘Did he call out as he fell?’
She thought the girl dipped her head, but it was her father, predictably, who replied. ‘Yes, indeed. He was yelling at the old woman in a most horrible manner. And then there was silence. My wife was much agitated, but I told her the quarrel was over, and in any case, it was not our business to be poking our nose into their affairs. But my wife has a tender heart . . .’
Here he gave his wife a look which was far from tender. ‘And my daughter has too much curiosity and so, against my express wishes, the two of them went out on to the balcony, and I went after them, naturally, to warn them that this was not a good idea. By that time there was no sign of anyone on the landing above, and the caretaker was, unhappily, lying on the ground below, deceased.’
‘Did you go down to help him?’
‘Of course not. I brought my wife and daughter back indoors and told my son to lock all the doors.’
‘You couldn’t be sure the caretaker was dead. He might have been badly hurt but not dead. With a doctor’s help he might have survived.’
‘I know dead when I see it. The man was dead.’
Bea tried to get the daughter to speak. ‘It must have been either Carrie Kempton or Lucy Emerson. Carrie lives one floor above you, and Lucy on the same level.’
‘I do not know. I did not see, myself. My daughter said it was the one with the stick.’
Bea hadn’t seen either women walking with a stick. The only person she knew who’d used a stick was Lavinia on the ground floor, and she was long since dead and gone. She stood up. ‘Would your daughter be kind enough to show me where she was standing when the caretaker disappeared from view?’
The man stood. Not the daughter. He said, ‘I myself will show you. I have forbidden my daughter to go out on to the balcony any more.’ He led the way across the hall and into a neat kitchen, where a large pot was simmering on the stove.
Producing a bunch of keys, he unlocked the back door. One key opened the lock in the centre, and another attended to locks at the top and bottom of the door.
‘See; this is where my daughter was taking her exercise.’ Bamboo screens had been wired into place, completely enclosing their side of the balcony from all viewpoints except for that directly above. Inside this cage-like structure was an exercise bike under a waterproof cover. There was a light powdering of snow on the cover, proving that the daughter had indeed not been using it since the snow began.
Bea stepped out on to the balcony, annoyed because that day she’d worn another pair of high-heeled boots. This open ironwork was a death trap to anyone wearing heels. To her left was Lucy Emerson’s section of the balcony, with her neat row of flower pots. An inch of snow showed that someone had recently come out of her back door, walked along the balcony and taken the stairs down. And then returned. Lucy? Or someone visiting her, perhaps. Carrie? The snow was still falling, lightly, filling in the telltale footsteps.
‘We stood here, in the doorway. We looked up; so.’ He looked up himself, as did Bea.
Up and up. It was quite true. Someone standing there would be perfectly able to see what was happening on the next floor up. Yes, their vision would be obscured by the grating above to some extent, but not that much.
‘The police can organize a reconstruction,’ said Bea.
‘No police,’ he said. ‘My daughter saw nothing, you understand?’
Nobody else in the building would want the police brought in, either. It was a puzzle. A man had died, and no one was prepared to do anything about it. It sounded as if the caretaker’s death had probably been more of an accident than a deliberate attempt at murder, anyway.
So why should Bea bother her head about it? She said, ‘You personally did not see who was talking to the caretaker?’
‘As I said, I saw nothing.’
‘Your daughter heard him yell as he went over, and after that, there was complete silence? No other sound at all?’
‘That is correct.’ A frown. ‘She said; a door closing. But of that she cannot be sure.’
If he stuck to his story and his daughter refused to speak out, there was no way to prove who had done it.
She sighed. ‘Thank you. You have been very kind.’
She collected Maggie, thanked their host yet again and left the flat.
‘Phew!’ Maggie ran her fingers up through her spiky hair. ‘He lied, didn’t he? His daughter saw the whole thing, but he won’t let her speak.’
‘Mm. He made it clear who’d done it, though. You noticed?’
‘What?’
‘Harvey knows, too. Sticks,’ said Bea, ‘and Greeks bearing gifts.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I rather think we’d better call on Harvey. One floor down, isn’t it?’
Maggie looked at her watch. ‘This won’t take long, will it? I’ve got to keep an eye on the supper.’
Bea rang Harvey’s bell. And waited. She had an uneasy feeling that . . . But surely, why would anyone want to harm him . . .? Unless of course . . .
‘Maggie, I don’t want to be alarmist, but would you take the lift down to the basement and ask the caretaker if he’d let us into Harvey’s flat?’
Maggie opened her mouth to object, changed her mind, and disappeared into the lift.
Bea waited. And waited. She rang the bell again. She knocked on the door.
No response.
The whine of the lift heralded Maggie’s return, alone. ‘He’s gone out. There’s a note on the door of his flat giving a mobile phone number, saying he’ll be back tomorrow morning. I rang the number. He’s in a pub somewhere, says he doesn’t work on Sundays. So now what do we do?’
SEVENTEEN
Sunday evening
Bea looked down at her boots, and then at the door. It was a very solid door. ‘I don’t think I could kick it in. Do you think Oliver could manage it?’
‘But why? He’s working on the computer.’ Maggie fidgeted. ‘Look, I need to put the vegetables on. If you’re so desperate to speak to Harvey, I’ll go up to the penthouse and down the fire escape and tap on his window.’
‘Don’t do that. It would destroy any footprints there are in the snow. Well, there’s only one thing for it.’ She crossed the foyer, put her finger on Carmela’s bell and kept it there.
Carmela came to the door at last, looking not quite as soignée as usual. ‘Is the building on fire?’
‘I think something’s happened to Harvey. May I go along your balcony . . .?’
‘What?’
Bea flattened Carmela against the door in her haste to get to the kitchen. All the ingredients for a supper for two were neatly laid out on the counter, waiting to be cooked. Bea wondered in passing who Carmela was planning to share her supper with, but had no time to speculate.
The key wa
s in the lock. She wrestled the door open and stepped out on to the balcony. It was getting colder by the minute. The powdering of snow on the balcony had become thicker. Bea caught her heel in the grating and had to tug it free as she hurried along. Bother! Another pair of boots ruined.
Harvey’s kitchen window. Newly replaced glass. Put in by the replacement caretaker? Nobody to be seen inside. A frozen meal for one lay thawing on a wooden chopping board.
Carmela was right behind her. ‘What is it?’
‘Harvey. Don’t know. I hope . . .’
She pointed along the balcony to where some footprints were rapidly being obliterated as more snow fell.
Carmela tried the kitchen door. It opened. ‘Harvey?’
Silence. A dripping tap somewhere?
Maggie loomed up behind them. ‘Brrr. What gives?’
‘Don’t come in,’ said Bea, following Carmela into the flat. ‘He was in his study. Which door is it?’ She’d lost her sense of direction.
‘Here.’ Carmela threw the door open and froze with her arm held out, barring Bea’s way in. Thus for a long moment. Then she turned her head to look at Bea. ‘How did you know?’
Bea looked. Squinched her eyes shut, and opened them again. Took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t. I think he tried to warn me, but I wasn’t quick enough to understand him. But then, the footsteps in the snow . . .’
Maggie looked over their shoulders and yelped. ‘Eeek! Oh no! He can’t really be dead, can he?’
Bea suppressed an impulse to snap Maggie’s head off by saying that he couldn’t very well be still alive with half his head missing, could he? He was dead. Deceased. Passed away. Had left us for a better place. Pick your platitude. She felt the start of a cold, hard rage in her stomach. She’d liked Harvey.
Maggie retched and ran back to the kitchen.
Carmela still didn’t move. She was very pale. Her eyelids flickered. ‘This one can’t be written off as an accident. Or can it?’
False Alarm Page 21
