‘Could you look to see how many shaving outfits are in the boys’ bathroom?’
Maggie was loving this. ‘You think he’s done a runner?’ She vanished, only to return within a minute. ‘Two lots, in expensive toilet cases, one plain and one with a monogram of a letter “L” on it. Which means …?’
‘Philip’s is not there. This is getting complicated. I really ought to have brought a special camera with me to take copies of his paperwork, because I don’t understand what’s going on.’
‘Like James Bond? His cameras are all disguised as something else, though, aren’t they?’
Bea made a note of the club name on the letterhead and made up the bed, leaving the paperwork in place. She picked up the dirty clothing piece by piece, exploring pockets. Nothing but receipts and reminders of unpaid bills … there was also a letter from the gym pointing out that his membership had lapsed and suggesting that he renew. No wonder he hadn’t been back there for a while.
She hung up the clothing that still looked reasonably clean, and stuffed the dirty bits and pieces into another dry-cleaner’s bag. She tried to get the hoover going – it was an asthmaticky old thing – and failed. The carpet sweeper was clogged with hairs. She cleaned it out and did her best with it.
She considered wiping down all the dusty surfaces in the room but desisted in case the police had to be called in and looked for fingerprints. They wouldn’t like her having changed the bed linen, either, but she’d left everything else in place, hadn’t she? Well, except for the mobile phone.
If Philip turned up, then she’d have a go at the windows, which could do with a wash, and there were some unidentifiable stains on the carpet which needed specialist attention. However, the room looked and smelled a lot better than before.
She stood in the doorway, scanning the room. Had she overlooked anything? Possibly a trained policeman would have been able to draw a more accurate picture of Philip from looking over his things? Was she getting a false picture of him? She told herself it was wrong to jump to conclusions, but no, she didn’t think she had. Philip was a bit of a layabout. He’d not told anyone he’d lost his job, he was in debt, drinking and taking tranquillizers. Plus it rather looked as if he’d lit out for parts unknown with a valuable picture, leaving no forwarding address.
She unplugged his mobile phone, hoping that even this short period might have charged it up. It had, a bit. She saw there were various messages on it, but wasn’t sure how to access them, as the phone was a different type from hers. So she popped it and the charger into one of the large pockets in her apron, to be looked at later.
She passed on to the next room, the one occupied by Maggie’s favourite, Zander. Was his name short for Alexander? Possibly. She wasn’t going to search this room, but clean it quickly and pass on to the next. Correction; she would just check to see if the painting had been put in here for safe keeping.
Zander’s room was slightly larger than Philip’s, better furnished and much better maintained. Unlike Philip’s room – which had given the impression of a transient dossing down for a few days – Zander’s indicated a man who’d made himself very much at home. Zander was tidy, and looked after his expensive clothes. There was fluff under his bed, but no oil painting. Nor was it in the wardrobe or closet, or any of the drawers. However, there was a large suitcase and a sports bag there, which was as it should be.
His paperwork was neatly docketed in files in the drawers of a modern desk, not locked. Everything looked above board. Squeaky clean? He kept all his monthly wage slips, had a healthy balance at the bank, paid off his credit cards on the dot, his job brought him in a decent salary, he had direct debits on. … yes, yes. Very sensible, very well organized. She didn’t know why she was looking at his paperwork. Habit, she supposed.
Another file contained his CV … yes, yes. It all looked good. Almost too good to be true. There was a locked briefcase under the desk which probably contained his passport, cheque book, that sort of thing.
There was no laptop, but Bea could see the mark in the dust where it usually sat. Headphones for listening to music, a brand new flat-screen telly and DVD player. A stereo sound system. A camera, digital. Lots of books in a bookcase nearby; paperbacks of modern authors on the trendy side. Condoms in the bedside table drawer, no medication except some Piriton and a pack of paracetomol.
Zander had thrust some lovingly phrased notes from females into his bedside drawer, higgledy-piggledy, as if they didn’t warrant being filed away. Bea got the impression that Zander probably operated most of his contacts by text message.
Two photos, not of girls, but of family groups; parents and siblings, presumably. Bea wondered vaguely what country Zander’s family was from originally. Had Maggie said Grenada?
Bea looked under the mattress, but there was nothing there. She made the bed, charged around with the carpet sweeper and dusted with a damp cloth. The place looked a lot better.
And then … the front door opened, and someone called out, ‘Hallo?’
Bea froze.
Into the dimness of the corridor came a girl who could only be Charlotte, the ugly duckling. She had a fringe of dark hair which hugged her cheeks, dark glasses, and was wearing a black suit which was all the wrong shape for her. There was a hectic flush on podgy cheeks, and she was talking in a squeaky voice.
‘Are you there, Maggie? They’re driving me mad at work and if one more person asks me for change for the photocopier, I’ll kill them!’ She caught sight of Bea, and stopped short. ‘So you’re the new cleaner, are you? You understand you’re only here on a week’s trial?’
Bea tried for a downtrodden employee’s tone of voice. ‘Yes, of course. I think the hoover’s broken.’
Would Maggie appear, wearing rubber gloves and stinking of disinfectant? That would give the game away with a vengeance.
Maggie appeared, sans gloves, sniffing. ‘Do hurry up, Mrs Thing, or you won’t have time to tackle the sitting room.’ She turned to Charlotte. ‘I’m afraid she’s the best I can do for the moment. I may be able to get someone who works a bit faster in a day or two, but … you know how it is with staff. You simply can’t get the best when you need it.’
Bea felt herself blush. How could Maggie! Though, to be fair, the girl had taken the right line.
Charlotte ignored Bea to talk to Maggie. ‘I thought I’d better pop back in my lunch hour to see how she was getting on. You won’t let her keep the keys, will you?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Maggie. ‘They always forget the keys if you let them keep them, and then where are you?’
‘Exactly.’ Charlotte put her head round the sitting-room door. ‘Not done in here yet? Oh well. Perhaps you can manage to work a little faster next time. Three hours today and three on Monday, right?’
Bea opened her mouth to reply, but the girl had already turned back to Maggie. ‘Are you free tonight? Liam’s working late, so I wondered if you fancied a little something down the road first? Then we could go on to the party at ten. Have you got someone special you’d like to invite? Oh, I forgot. You’re still getting over your ex, aren’t you? Well, there’ll be plenty of talent there tonight.’
‘Suits me,’ said Maggie. ‘I have to get back to work in a minute. Half six here?’
At that moment Philip’s mobile phone rang in Bea’s pocket. Bea didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t possibly answer it in front of Charlotte.
‘Oh, really!’ said the ugly duckling. ‘Personal calls during work time … and I expect she took a good half-hour off to have a coffee.’
Bea muttered, ‘Sorry!’ and sidled into the nearest room, which happened to be the sitting room. She pulled the phone out, and muted the sound. Another message had been left on it. She wondered how often it had been ringing in Philip’s absence.
‘What are we going to do about locking up when she’s finished?’ Charlotte followed Bea into the sitting room, but addressed her words to Maggie. Bea pretended she hadn’t heard, and busied herself col
lecting discarded takeaway dishes. Charlotte continued, ‘I don’t like leaving her here on her own, but I really must get back.’
‘Besides which,’ said Maggie, ‘she won’t be able to lock the front door here if she hasn’t got a key, though I suppose we could get Randolph to come up and see to it. No, tell you what, I’ll come down with you now, and pop back up to the office, see what’s happening there. Then I can come back in an hour, lock up and see her out.’
‘You’re a star, Maggie,’ said Charlotte, her footsteps fading down the corridor. The front door opened and shut behind the pair of them.
Bea was alone in the flat, except for several bluebottles which were investigating the remains of last night’s suppers. Bea wanted to ring Maggie’s neck. For one thing, she wasn’t going to be able to get the rest of the flat clean in an hour without help. On the other hand, she wanted to laugh because Maggie really had been rather superb, hadn’t she?
Bea’s own mobile rang. Velma, sounding controlled and tense. ‘Bea, are you there? Have you got anything out of Philip? The thing is – I mean, it’s a bit desperate – Sandy keeps asking me if he’s all right, and I don’t know what to say. He’s in Charing Cross. The hospital, I mean.’ There was a catch in her voice. ‘We’ve been here all night, because the pains got worse and it’s not indigestion, it’s his heart. They did an ECG last night and that showed something really bad, and this morning he’s been for an angiogram, and it looks as if one of the arteries is getting blocked and … Bea, I don’t want to lose him, I really don’t. Would you mind, if you haven’t anything else on, would you come and sit with me?’
Still no news of Philip. Rafael decided he’d try Philip’s father tomorrow, even though Philip had said there was no point his looking for help in that direction nowadays.
Charlotte was moaning that Philip had gone off without paying the rent. If she took it into her head that Philip really had gone missing she’d squawk for the police, and that was the last thing they wanted, wasn’t it? He must get Liam to tell her that Philip had been in touch with him, saying he’d been off on a bender and was skint but trying to sort out his finances.
If only all this hadn’t happened at the same time as things had blown up at work! The gallery was hosting a show for an artist who had a big following in the north. This would be his first show in London, and it had to go well. Rafael’s boss was demanding his attention twenty-four seven.
Rafael did some deep breathing exercises to calm himself down.
Five
Saturday afternoon
Hospitals are much the same everywhere. Why don’t they upgrade their dim light bulbs? A brighter environment would make everyone feel better.
Velma was in a four-bed ward, sitting at Sandy’s bedside and holding his hand. There were lines on her face which hadn’t been there yesterday. Sandy was wired up to machines, and his eyes were closed. His big, athletic body looked at once lumpish and limp. When Velma saw Bea, she gave her husband’s hand a pat and said she’d be back in five minutes. She led the way out into the corridor, but stood where she could keep an eye on her husband.
‘How is he?’
Velma shrugged. ‘They’re moving him in a minute to a side room to keep a closer eye on him. Translation; they think he might pop his clogs any minute. Oh dear!’ She stifled a guffaw. ‘How stupid of me, making jokes when … but it’s really serious, Bea. They want to operate, but they can’t till Monday and then they’re going to have to shove someone else out of the list to make room for him. Oh, Bea! He’s always been so fit. Not like my first.’
Bea tried to reassure her friend. ‘Sandy’s strong. He won’t let this kill him.’
Velma blinked. ‘I blame Philip. Sandy got into such a state, worrying. The food poisoning didn’t help, I suppose. If we could just clear Philip of … whatever.’ She gulped. Her hand groped and caught hold of Bea’s, and clung on. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute. I’m not going to go to pieces. Absolutely not. Only, I keep thinking that I ought to pray and I don’t know how. Bea, will you pray for me?’
Bea thought that she hardly knew how to pray herself, but she nodded. Hamilton used to pray all the time. She’d try to remember how he did it, and do the same.
Velma was keeping her eyes on Sandy. ‘Have you any good news for me?’
The only news Bea had so far, was bad. How about this: Philip’s in debt all round and seems to have done a runner with the picture. Yes, that would help, wouldn’t it?
Bea said, with care, ‘I’m trying to get an idea of what Philip is really like. What’s your impression of him?’
Velma teased a handkerchief out of her pocket, and blew her nose. She shook back her hair. ‘Forgive me, I’m somewhat distracted. Sandy over-compensated Philip for the loss of his mother, and now the boy thinks the world owes him a living. That sounds mean and petty and I don’t mean to be. I’m sure he’s a nice lad underneath.’
‘He had a job?’
‘A production company which sells to the television channels. Somewhere in Soho. Tuesday Next? Some name like that.’
Bea decided not to mention what she’d discovered about Philip’s finances that morning. ‘Is he still in contact with his mother?’
‘I doubt it. Sandy says Philip went up there once for a holiday but came back early saying his mother had gone all weird, that there was no heating and she was living on lettuce leaves. He refused to go again.’
So it was unlikely that Philip had gone up there. ‘Was Philip upset when you and Sandy got together?’
‘He was over the moon. The first time we met, he gave me a hug and said, “My lovely, rich new mother!” He suggested I made him an allowance, but I couldn’t see why he should need one if he was working, especially as he was always boasting about how important his job was. In my view, grown-up sons should be responsible for themselves. Sandy agreed with me.’
‘Sandy didn’t expect you to fund Philip’s lifestyle, then?’
‘I don’t say he wouldn’t have gone along with it if I’d wanted to throw money at the boy, but he certainly didn’t suggest it. If anything, he’s embarrassed by my being so well off. Incredible as it may seem, Sandy loves me for myself. It was he who proposed a pre-nuptial settlement, not me. He refused to let me put his name jointly with mine on our house, and he was keeping his job because it was a worthwhile thing to do. They think the world of him at work. People who spend their lives working for others are few and far between, aren’t they?’ She dabbed at the corners of her eyes, gave her head a little shake, and tried to smile. ‘So, give me some good cheer, old friend. What has your little Maggie found out?’
Sighing inwardly, Bea produced an edited report. ‘Philip wasn’t there last night. Apparently he’s somewhat cavalier in his comings and goings. There’s a party on tonight at a flat upstairs and we’re hoping he’ll turn up for that.’ Bea didn’t think he would, but Velma needed to hang on to hope at the moment.
There was a stir of people around Sandy’s bed and Velma’s hand shot to her mouth. ‘I have to go.’
‘You don’t intend to stay with him again tonight, do you? You’ll make yourself ill. Look, ring me when they’ve got him settled and I’ll come to fetch you, take you home with me. The hospital can contact you at my place if you’re needed.’
‘I can’t leave him.’
‘Then give me your keys and a list of what you need from home and I’ll bring it to you later.’
Velma put her hand to her head. ‘Yes, I could do that, but … I can’t think straight. I’ll ring you, shall I? I must go to him. Pray for us, won’t you?’ She almost ran to her husband’s bedside.
Bea went out into the fresh air. The traffic sounded too loud. She hailed a taxi and took it back home. And tried to pray.
As she opened the front door, she could hear Maggie’s voice, rising effortlessly above the television and the radio in the kitchen. Savoury scents permeated the house. Maggie had been cooking. Maggie loved cooking and hated office work, but had been in
doctrinated by her ambitious mother to think that career women employed other people to do their housework, and that those who cleaned and cooked for others were second-class citizens.
‘Oops!’ cried Maggie, when she saw Bea. ‘I’m meeting Cinderella, aka the ugly duckling, tonight for supper at Wagamama’s before the party, but couldn’t leave you and Oliver without anything to eat. Shall I yell for him to come and get at it?’
Bea realized she’d missed lunch and was extremely hungry. When Maggie went to shout down the stairs at Oliver, Bea switched off the television and the radio, and laid the table.
Maggie crashed back into the kitchen. ‘Mr Max rang, a couple of times. He’s tied up with visits in his constituency this afternoon and all day tomorrow. He said you’d been trying to get him and I said you were out on a job, though I didn’t say you were out cleaning because he’d have had a fit, wouldn’t he!’
Bea nodded. Yes, he would. And bother, because she really did need to speak to Max. The tax bill … the solicitor’s letter. Ouch. ‘Any other calls?’
‘Oliver dealt with them. Oh, and your first, the gorgeous Piers, came round, looking all worried. Said he’d drop by again later. He took that watercolour that ended up on the floor. I suppose that’s all right?’
Bea nodded again. A wedge of savoury sausage-meat pie landed on a plate in front of her, with mashed potatoes and beans. Her salivary glands went into overtime.
Oliver slid into the seat beside her, bearing a sheaf of messages on a clipboard. ‘We’re eating early? Good.’
Bea indicated the clipboard with her fork, her mouth full. ‘Can those wait till we’ve eaten?’
Maggie helped herself to a small portion of everything, saying, ‘I deserve a raise. Since you went off to the hospital, I thought I’d better finish the job at the flat for you. So I spent two hours ten minutes cleaning on your behalf.’
‘You’re brilliant, Maggie,’ said Bea. ‘Did you find any paperwork, anything in the third man’s room? What’s his name?’
‘Liam. I thought it was Lee, but it’s Liam. Irish, I suppose. I looked in all the usual hiding places men have—’
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