Anger had replaced her first feeling of loss. ‘Did it occur to you that I might not want Hamilton done in oils?’
‘Pastels, dear. Not oils.’
She shrieked, ‘Pastels? How cheap!’
He was laughing, steering her into the sitting room. ‘Come off it, ducky. Oils it is. It’s a gift so once it’s done, you can smash it up and burn it if you like. Although I’d have you know that my portraits command a very respectable price these days.’
‘Yes. No. I’m sorry. No, I’m not!’ She clenched her fists and closed her eyes. ‘I’m so angry I don’t know what to, how to … I thought I loved him mildly, as a friend, but it seems I loved him wildly as well.’
Piers investigated the side table. ‘Shall I open a bottle?’
‘The photograph going missing, that almost did me in. Why didn’t you tell me? I couldn’t think what had happened to it. His table’s gone missing, too, that he always used to sit at and play patience, and I’ve still got his clothes to sort out.’
‘There’s a good-looking antique table in the shed in the garden. I spotted it when we were hunting for Oliver. Would that be it?’
‘The damp! Cobwebs! How dare Max put it there!’
‘I expect they needed the space for entertaining.’ He pressed a glass of something into her hand and guided her on to a chair. ‘Sit down, drink up, and relax. I suppose you’ve been letting Coral wind you up.’
‘I could scream!’
‘All right then, scream.’
She took a sip from the glass. Brandy. She set it down. ‘No, thanks. I’d rather have coffee. No, I wouldn’t. I’m not sleeping properly, and coffee only makes it worse. What have I got myself into, Piers? I’ve said I’d try to help these poor people, but I haven’t a clue how. Even if we find out where they live, what can we do? Camp out on their doorstep, begging for the money? The police would move us on. Coral can’t take her case to the police because her son-in-law fiddled the books, and as for the squadron leader—’
‘The what?’
Bea was overwrought. ‘Don’t try to make fun of him. He may be an anachronism but he’s lost a packet, too. He went to the small claims court, but without a genuine name and address to give for them, he didn’t get anywhere and neither will we. We’ve hardly any proof of their existence, even.’
‘Then get some, ducky. If they’ve done it before—’
‘Twice that we know of.’
‘—then they must have left a paper trail somewhere.’
‘The squadron leader is all for staking out their accommodation address but hundreds of people go through that shop every day. Even if he did recognize someone and follow them, he’d be spotted, for sure. He doesn’t exactly blend into the background.’
The phone rang at her elbow. She glared at it and turned her head away. ‘I’ve had enough. I want out. Out of here and out of everything.’ That came out as a whisper.
Piers picked up the phone. ‘The Abbot residence … Well, hello, Max. Yes, it’s me, propping up your mama, who is in dire need of support at the moment. She’s worried about Coral. I’m going to advise her that Coral sues you personally for her money since—’ He clapped his hand over the telephone while Max went ballistic at the other end. At length, ‘Yes, but you must admit it’s a reasonable solution, Max. No doubt you are covered by insurance, and obviously your mother can’t be expected to pay … yes, I daresay it would be a tidy sum and no, I don’t suppose the Party would be best pleased if you were dragged into a dispute but … well, yes, you might have to settle out of court if—’
Max slammed the phone down, and Piers cradled the handset, laughing.
Bea was forced to laugh, too. ‘Now, now, Piers. Don’t wind him up. I suppose Coral could make out some kind of claim on us, though she wouldn’t.’ Or would she? If the worst came to the worst, she just might. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘whether Coral could or couldn’t, the squadron leader can’t because he wasn’t introduced through Max.’ A thought struck her. ‘I wonder. We used to find clowns and magicians for children’s entertainments in the old days, using a theatrical agency in Soho. I wonder if Max asked them to supply singers for those two functions.’ She hesitated, wondering whether to ring Max back. ‘I’d better go downstairs and see if Oliver can trace them.’
Piers wriggled his wrist. ‘I’ll need some help getting your table back up, so let me have first crack at Oliver. Then, duty done, it’s back to work. I think you’ll be pleased with the portrait when it’s done. It’s the best I can do to make up for his loss.’
‘I reserve judgment. Oh, and you’d better get your dinner jacket ready for tomorrow night. You’re squiring me to the ball, remember?’
Friday, early evening
He was – just slightly – put out. In his experience, girls never ignored his phone calls and text messages. Of course, he had to admit that Maggie was different from the type he usually went for. Sexually practically a virgin, which was also unusual. Apparently her ex-husband had been unable to rouse her in bed. What a prick!
He’d even considered that he might do worse than get serious about this one. He’d phoned and left a dozen messages. Texted her again and again. No reply. Odd. Girls were usually hanging on to the phone waiting for him to ring.
Like the little slag of a receptionist. Like Shirl. Like, well, others.
Still no reply. Perhaps her battery had run down. He’d have to phone the house if she didn’t get back to him soon. He’d been thinking about her all day. Unusual for him. Perhaps it was because she was so childlike? Expected nothing from him? Yet her body had excited him as few others had done.
Abbot. Kensington. He knew the road. He could find her, no sweat. He wasn’t planning to see anyone else that evening. And definitely not the little receptionist whose calls and texts he’d been deleting all day.
Twelve
Friday, evening
Bea put aside all her worries in order to restore her table – Hamilton’s table – back to its original glory. Luckily Max had thought to swathe it in some plastic sheeting before stowing it in the shed. True, once Piers and Oliver had manoeuvred it up the stairs into the sitting room, it did take up a bit of space by the windows, but it was an elegant piece and anyway, it was only in high summer that it was warm enough to leave the French windows open.
A slurp of vinegar in a bowl, some warm water, a soft cloth. Greasy finger marks and dust disappeared. Another soft cloth, and the surface burnished up nicely. The high-backed chair that Hamilton had been accustomed to use was too low for Bea, but one from the dining-table was just right.
She slid the top of the table round and discovered several packs of playing cards inside, including two packs of patience cards, with an instruction booklet. Hamilton had got through a double pack every six months. She’d bought them from Harrods for him; one at Christmas, and one for his birthday in June. The last pack hadn’t even been opened.
She pushed the tabletop back into position and opened it up. She tore the wrapper off the virgin double pack of cards, and checked that they were all there. She replaced one pack back in its box, and shuffled the other. Hamilton could do this with a flick of his wrists. Shrrrrrim. She couldn’t do it as quickly as him, but she didn’t do badly, either.
As a beginner, she used only one pack of cards in an easy game. She dealt out the cards, face down, in the Clock patience. One o’clock, two o’clock, rock. Right round to the queens at twelve o’clock. Four times. Then four cards face down in the middle in the king’s space. Turn the last card of the middle pile face up. A two. Slip the two under the cards at two o’clock, take the top card off that pile. A queen. Tuck that under the pile at twelve o’clock, take the top card off that pile and put that under the pile at nine o’clock. Here we go round the mulberry bush. King. Eight. Two. Ace. Three kings were up. If a fourth one came up, the game would be over. We’re nearly there. Bother. Four kings up and a lot of cards still face down. The game was over but hadn’t worked out.
She s
huffled, and stirred the cards, face down. Dealt again.
Hamilton hadn’t played the Clock patience. He’d liked several double patience games, all of which looked complicated. She wouldn’t attempt one of those. Two kings came up quickly. She slipped cards under and moved them around the clock. Four kings came face up before half the cards had been revealed. Finish.
Hamilton had played patience a lot when he was stressed. He’d said it calmed him down, let his subconscious deal with the problem while his hands moved the cards around. She dealt again. One king came up straight away.
Some people were superstitious about cards, thinking that the queen of spades meant death. There was the queen of spades, not quite smiling up at her from the table. Bea swept the cards to one side and leant on her arms, looking out over the garden to the tree beyond, and beyond the tree to the sky which was clouding over, and the spire of the church. Up in the sky some birds were circling. She didn’t know what they were. House martins, perhaps? Perhaps she should set up a bird table and get a book to learn the difference between a sparrow and a starling.
Playing patience hadn’t done anything for her. It had been a waste of time and energy. What she needed to do was make a list, build a folio of facts, a pile of presentations. Why, she’d really no idea how much money these con men had managed to accumulate so far, or how long they’d been doing it, either.
Oliver had managed to trace a few names of people and organizations who’d been used by the con men, but as for evidence … forget it! She’d been all woolly and sympathetic and not at all businesslike, and did that get you anywhere? No.
Where was Oliver, anyway? And was Maggie fit for work yet?
The afternoon was clouding over so Bea went to shut the French windows, noting that Maggie – really the girl was too thin for perfect health – was watering the tubs below. Bea told herself that Maggie was coping all right, wasn’t she? And then thought that if it had been her who’d been abused like that, she wouldn’t be out watering the garden, but be tucked up in bed, crying. Bea had to admire the girl’s grit. She went down the steps to talk to her. ‘How are you feeling? You ought to take it easy today.’
Maggie held up her mobile phone. ‘He won’t take “no” for an answer. Wants to see me this evening. I don’t know what to do.’
Bea was brisk. ‘It’s your call, love. Tell him “yes”, tell him “no”. Get on with your life.’
‘He doesn’t frighten me. Not really. I mean, it would be silly to let him scare me, wouldn’t it?’
Bea sat on irritation. ‘Then text him “no”.’
‘I did, first thing this morning. He’s tried to get through to me umpteen times since, and sent me lots of texts. I keep texting him to get lost and he takes no notice. He knows where I live because I brought him back here last night. I said, sort of implied, that you were my aunt and now he thinks … I don’t know what he thinks.’
Bea set her teeth. ‘Swap phones with me. I’ll put a flea in his ear, if that’s what you want.’
The girl was not far from angry tears. ‘Would you? You’ve been pretty good to me, all things considered, and I know I’m hopeless in the office and you’ve no need of me there, and I’m not afraid of him, I’m not. But what will happen if he comes to the door here?’
So she was afraid of him? Bea was brisk. ‘He won’t, not after the earful I intend to give him. If he does, we call the police, right? Because that’s stalking.’
‘Oh. Yes, I suppose it is.’ Maggie passed her phone over to Bea. ‘I suppose when you’re old, nothing upsets you, does it?’
Doesn’t it? thought Bea, suppressing a desire to hit the child. The phone felt slightly sticky. Yuk. She put on her glasses. ‘Now, how does this phone work? Oh yes. I see. Maggie, will you go and put the kettle on, there’s a dear? Herbal tea for me, not coffee.’
Maggie disappeared and Bea walked around the garden, composing a text. Something off-putting was required. Something to make the man feel small but not to humiliate. Voicemail might be easier for what she had to say. The phone vibrated in her hand, and another text message appeared.
Bea grimaced. The young had no sense of decency, had they? So he’d enjoyed Maggie’s body and wanted a repeat? Had he no idea what he’d done to Maggie, was doing to her?
She returned his last voicemail call. An eager voice said, ‘At last! What have you been—?’
Bea broke in. ‘Young man, I don’t know you and you don’t know me, but this is Maggie’s aunt speaking. She borrowed my phone last night, so I’ve been getting all her messages this afternoon, which is rather annoying. I understand you’d like to see her again, but she tells me it was just a one-night stand as far as she was concerned, and she’s not interested.’ Bea killed the call over his protest.
There. Done. The phone upstairs was ringing now. Someone was leaving a message. Bother. She thought it might rain and the French windows were still open, so she climbed the stairs and pulled the windows shut. The caller hadn’t left a message, which was fortune as Bea didn’t feel up to civil chit-chat.
She went down the stairs to her office. Oliver was clattering away at his computer in the middle office, so she called out to him to join her.
‘Oliver, we have to get ourselves organized. We need to get statements from all the people who’ve been conned out of money. Let’s make a list and divide it up. The first two venues, for a start.’
‘I’ve tried ringing the managers but they’ll neither confirm nor deny that there’s a problem.’
‘If they’d been paid what was due, they’d not be cagey but quite open about it. Probably boast that they’d never been caught. Give me their names and addresses and I’ll go to see them.’
Oliver extracted a couple of sheets of paper and handed them over. Bea put on her glasses and saw that she’d have to use the car to reach them. ‘Fine. Now when Coral gets back to us, ask her to write us an invoice for each of the functions she catered for. A detailed one. Tell her we’re not taking it to the police, but we do need to know exactly what she’s owed. The same for the squadron lea— for Leo. Got that?’
He nodded. He was proving to be an excellent PA. Bea reminded herself that he was still very young and shouldn’t, perhaps, be pushed too hard. All work and no play, etcetera. She said, ‘Have you heard from your father yet?’
He shook his head, eyes on his notebook.
‘Well, if you don’t hear by tomorrow we’ll write him a letter suggesting a meeting. Perhaps you’d like to draft one while I’m out? Now, I’d like to get a line on the singers who appeared at the Garden Room and the Country Club. In the old days we used to recommend entertainers from a theatrical agency called Stars Unlimited, in Soho. Can you trace any recent recommendations from them? In other words, did Max give their name to Mrs Briggs, and if so, did they supply the singers? And if so—’
‘Did they get paid? I’m on to it.’
‘You’re something of a star yourself, Oliver. I hope I’m not giving you too much to do.’
‘I like it. It’s like a hunt, better than a computer game.’
‘It’s not a game.’
‘No, I know that.’ He glanced at the door. ‘What happened to Maggie’s not a game, either. He ought to be shot.’
‘No fisticuffs, please.’
He tried on a grin. ‘I wouldn’t be much good at that, anyway, would I?’
‘No karate skills?’
‘I wish. Maybe I’ll take lessons, sometime.’
Bea nodded, smiling, dismissing him. Thinking that if he didn’t grow another couple of inches, it might indeed be a good idea for him to take some form of self-defence classes.
She gathered up her papers and looked down to see if she was wearing sufficiently business-like attire. She wasn’t. She hurried up the stairs, checking the time by her watch, slid into a silky suit in palest grey-green, checked that her make-up looked reasonably intact, found her car keys and some of the agency business cards, and set off for, what was first on the list? The
Garden Room.
The Garden Room was a huge conservatory added on to the side of a busy arterial road pub. There were hanging baskets around the perimeter, a fair number of vehicles in the car park, and a general air of prosperity. Bea noted that there was no litter wafting about the place, and passed through double doors into the bar. There were a number of customers inside, and through a glass door at the back she could see more sitting at tables on the patio outside. A board advertised the menu. There was also a sign pointing to the Garden Room, asking that customers be appropriately dressed.
At Bea’s request, the barman produced the manager, a solid-looking individual with enormous hands and watchful brown eyes. A toughie, who’d know how to care for his beer. ‘Tommy Banks,’ he said, introducing himself. ‘How may I help you?’
Bea said, ‘I may be interested in hiring your function room for a party. Would it be possible for me to see it?’
He led her through double doors into the room beyond. There were pretty blinds at the window, bamboo furniture, glass-topped tables. Everything was sparklingly clean. There was a small stage at one end and a second bar, currently shut off behind a grille. It would be a pleasant place for functions, seating about 150 people.
That day about half the room had been screened off, and Bea could see the tables had been laid out for a birthday party with balloons and favours beside each plate. The sun was setting but it had been a warm day and shades had been drawn over the windows in the roof. Bea approved the place. She also took a liking to the manager, who showed her to a seat and asked if she’d care for a drink.
She declined, not wanting to mislead him about the reason for her visit. ‘I may well be interested in a venue for a party later on, but just at present,’ and here she laid a business card on the table, ‘I’m looking for information about a charity function run by a Mrs Somers-Briggs.’
False Charity Page 15
