False Picture

by Veronica Heley

  Their thoughtfulness made Bea feel better. Hamilton had always booked them the same room at the top of the ancient building, because he liked its spaciousness and the way the ceiling was crisscrossed by huge wooden beams. Would she feel strange there now that she was a solitary widow? She told herself, You must look forward as much as you can.

  She rang Maggie back. ‘All fixed up. If you’re in the Markt there’s always a taxi or two cruising around by the post office. Take one to the Europ Hotel – the taxi will know where it is. I’ve booked you into a double room on the top floor, en suite. This will leave you free to dump your luggage, freshen up and do some sightseeing before Liam arrives. You can always fetch the presents for Liam’s friends after you’ve made contact with him, can’t you?’

  There was a stir on the train. Bea added, ‘We’re just going into the tunnel now and I won’t be able to use my phone for a bit, so …’

  The signal cut off. Bea told herself to keep calm and everything would be all right. She remembered Velma and Sandy for the first time in hours and wondered if he were still on the operating table, and how Velma was coping.

  Food was being served. And wine. Bea decided to forgo the wine, and to make some notes in case she had to call on the police to get the girls out of this mess. She needed to get it clear in her own mind, too. Paper? A pen? Where was the little notebook that always travelled with her? Not there. Sometimes she popped a notebook into the outside pocket of her overnight bag … but she’d got Hamilton’s instead of her own and … ah, a notebook. His notebook.

  She felt her breath catch in her throat. She’d bought this red leather-covered book for him at Smythson’s three Christmases ago, knowing how he appreciated quality in everything he used. He’d used it as a commonplace book, to make notes when he was away from his computer, lists of things to do, odd reflections that had occurred to him about people, about life. He’d always used a black ink pen, his handwriting square, very deliberate.

  On the first page he’d written his name, address and gone on to add ‘The World, The Universe’, just as small children did. Next there came a list of people they ought to send postcards to when they went on holiday. He must have popped it into his overnight bag, forgetting that they’d decided at the last minute to take only two large suitcases with them on their round the world trip. He’d never use it again.

  She turned her head to the window, to the blank black tunnel wall, her throat closing up. She didn’t realize she was crying until one of the train attendants asked her if she were all right. She forced herself to smile and nod.

  She unclasped her fingers from round the book, found the first clean page, and jotted down everything she could remember people had said about Philip and the missing picture. Hamilton wouldn’t have wanted her to waste the book. Hamilton would have wanted her to be methodical, to take notes, to double-check. Hamilton had inscribed a short prayer on the inside of the front cover. ‘Dear Lord, be with me in all I say and do today.’

  An appropriate prayer for all occasions.

  One hour from leaving St Pancras and they were in France and approaching Lille. Oh, the flat, flat fields of France and Flanders … so different from the rolling English countryside. Once they’d left Lille, she tried Maggie again. ‘Have you found the hotel, Maggie?’

  ‘We’ve just got into the room. Wow! What a stunning view! Yes, it is, Charlotte. Don’t be silly. Mrs Abbot, it’s very good of you to go to so much trouble, but when Liam arrives Charlotte will want to be with him, though as Zander’s not coming, maybe I’ll … but we’ll have to wait and see what he says. We don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but you do understand, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course. Leave a note at the desk as to where you’ll be, and I’ll try to catch up with you.’

  Maggie’s voice went faint. ‘Hang about … Charlotte’s phone’s making noises …’ A pause, and Maggie came back to Bea. ‘Charlotte’s just got a text through from … who did you say? From Zander? Why is he …? Oh!’ A pause, and then Maggie came through to Bea again. ‘Zander’s just texted Charlotte to say that Liam’s missed the one o’clock train but will definitely be on the one leaving about two. Which means he won’t be here till about half past six. I wish he’d texted me! I’d have given him a piece of my mind!’

  Bea said, ‘Yes, but Charlotte shouldn’t—’

  Maggie wasn’t listening. Her voice came ever more faintly. ‘Look, Charlotte, look out of the window. Wow, we’re right by the canal. Aren’t these little bridges just dinky, and look … there are swans on the water … and ducks, too …’

  Maggie cut the call as Bea’s train drew smoothly into Brussels station. Bea collected her overnight bag and alighted, trusting that Maggie would prevail upon Charlotte to abandon her lovelorn wait for her swain. Now for the next train to Bruges.

  Rafael was furious. It was bad enough that Liam had muffed the disposal of the body, but the loon had failed to clear the flat of Zander’s belongings last night. His excuse? He’d been so tired he’d fallen asleep! Rafael would give Liam ‘falling asleep’ when this business was done and dusted. How could he have been so stupid! And letting the battery on his mobile phone get so low that he had to use Zander’s! Of all the cretinous …!

  Enough of that. Next problem: Liam had spent the morning clearing out Zander’s belongings, which meant he wasn’t going to catch a Eurostar train till two or maybe half past. Allow two hours to get to Brussels. The trains from Brussels to Bruges ran at half-hour intervals, taking fifty minutes for the journey. Mr Van was expecting to pick up the goods in the Markt at 6 p.m. on the dot, not one minute later, but whichever train he caught, Liam was not going to make it in time.

  Meanwhile, the girls were on the loose without a minder. Would they hang around, waiting for Liam? Charlotte … yes, probably. The Maggie bird was another matter. She was a singleton on the prowl, who could be picked up by anyone who took a fancy to her and then … Rafael started to sweat. Suppose she told a complete stranger that she was carrying a present for a man she didn’t know? It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Rafael told himself that he was good at solving problems. So what should he do about this one? Answer: get Van to pick the goods up himself, or use his driver to do so. He could make contact with the girls, chat them up and relieve them of the goods. Liam must phone the girls, find out where they’d be at six and tell them to expect Mr Van. Problem solved.

  Ten

  Monday afternoon

  Bea took a taxi from the station to the hotel, where she was greeted with pleasure by Erik the Red and his wife. They were a formidable pair, charming, intelligent and speaking four or more European languages. Bea saw them look past her as she came through the front door, expecting Hamilton to follow her in. She braced herself to tell them that Hamilton had died, and they commiserated without going on about it. Bea had been afraid she might burst into tears when she spoke his name, but managed not to do so.

  Erik the Red – so called because of the colour of his hair – said her young friends had checked in but gone out again. And no, they hadn’t left a message for her.

  Bea confided in him. ‘They were supposed to have been accompanied by their boyfriends for a short holiday, but one has been delayed and the other couldn’t make it. They are, perhaps, a little naïve in thinking that the remaining one will meet them as arranged.’

  The hotel manager was worldly wise. ‘You think he might not be entirely reliable? If it had not been for your recommendation, we would not have given them a room tonight, because the dark one insisted her boyfriend had booked them into a hotel somewhere else, but given them the wrong name by mistake. We don’t want to keep a room for people who might decide not to stay at the last minute.’

  His wife was one step ahead of him. ‘You think the boyfriend might have a bad reason for bringing the girls here, but not coming himself?’

  Bea tried not to gasp. Did they think the girls were being targeted by white slave traffickers? Gracious! Knowing the reason
the girls had been encouraged to come to Bruges, Bea was inclined to dismiss the suggestion out of hand. Of course she knew it sometimes applied to girls from poor countries, tricked into thinking they had jobs in a city only to find their passports confiscated and they themselves forced to become prostitutes.

  This didn’t apply to Maggie and Charlotte, but Bea decided to use this suspicion to her own advantage. ‘Yes, perhaps the girls are somewhat naïve. I will pay the bill for their room, whether they occupy it or not. If the boyfriend turns up and whisks them off to another hotel and they want to go with him, I can hardly stop them. But like you, I feel something is not quite right about their arrangements. I will try to find them and check on the boyfriend, just in case.’

  ‘The tall girl said she would take the one-hour tour in the citybus and then go on to the Chocolate Experience. The other said she’d go back to the Markt, because her boyfriend had promised to meet her there.’

  ‘Good,’ said Bea. She picked up her key. ‘As a matter of interest, would you contact the police if girls disappeared from your hotel?’

  ‘Of a certainty.’

  This was reassuring, even if it was highly unlikely that her two girls were being targeted as sex slaves. Bea dumped her bag in her room, noting in passing that the flowers in the window boxes this year were vibrant, purple petunias. The last time she had been here with Hamilton … no, best not think about that. Yet she lingered at the window, renewing her acquaintance with the panorama of canal and ancient buildings, the skyline topped with towers, spires and twisted turrets. She leaned out, as she always did when she arrived, to check that she could still glimpse the restored windmills to the west. The sky was a pellucid blue. Egg-shell blue. The light-blue sky of Flanders.

  She went downstairs and out into the sunshine, heading for the Markt in the centre of town. Somehow or other she was going to have to get Charlotte to open her luggage and check on what she’d been carrying for Liam. Drugs or a stolen picture. Which? And then what?

  The Markt square was filled with tourists of all nationalities, posing for pictures, waiting in a queue to take a ride in a horse-drawn carriage, or gathering in groups around a tour leader to hear something of the history of the ancient buildings with their stepped gables and the towering belfry.

  Nowhere was there a dark-haired, bespectacled girl with a fringe to be seen.

  Bea tried to think how Charlotte would act, alone in a public place. She would have a coffee, of course. And then, perhaps, a tea and a cake? There were no cafés on the side of the square which contained the town hall and post office, so she would choose a café which would give her a sight of their steps. Bea walked past each one, searching the faces of tourists sitting at tables which were divided from the hoi polloi by ironwork stands of flowering plants. No, Charlotte wasn’t in any of those.

  Perhaps Charlotte would need to visit the toilets in the courtyard behind the belfry. As usual in Belgium, the toilets were immaculate, overseen by a dragon lady who made a living by charging tourists for their visits. Charlotte wasn’t in the loos.

  Would she have visited one of the art galleries housed in the same building as the belfry? No, she wasn’t in either of those.

  Bea thought that by now Charlotte might be as annoyed with Liam as she was besotted by him. She might well be lured into one of the main shopping streets which led off from the Markt. And why not? She could pop back to the square now and then. She could even see the steps of the town hall from the first shops. And there, not far down, was the entrance to Inno, a department store which would surely attract any woman with money in her pocket.

  Bea reminded herself that Charlotte had probably started to prowl around the shops some time ago. She’d have done Inno and moved on by now. Did Charlotte like shoes? If so, she might well have indulged in some retail therapy. Bea wandered down the street, familiarizing herself with the latest fashions, tempted to enter one of the coffee shops, pausing to admire the colourful window displays. Would Charlotte have been lured into buying lace or chocolate? Belgian chocolate was the tops. But no, Charlotte wasn’t in any of those places.

  For some years now Bea had been buying clothes in Rubica, a shop which stocked well-made fashions with a flair. Hamilton had always accompanied her on visits to this shop, because his sense of colour and of what clothes would flatter Bea was spot on. So, when she came to the corner of the square where the shop was to be found, Bea hardly hesitated before walking in.

  Annemie and Jeannine greeted her with warmth and, as the hotel people had done, looked for her husband to follow her in. Bea had to explain again, and was touched by their genuine if restrained reaction. How long ago was it? Ah, what a pity. Did she need to buy anything today? Would it help? Sometimes it did.

  Well, yes; she’d seen a swirly tobacco-coloured skirt in the window which would be just the thing for autumn, and what about a smart jacket to go over it? Rubica’s styles were just that bit different from those to be found in the high streets of Britain.

  Jeannine knew her size, of course. She could tell exactly what size anyone was, the second they walked through the door. Garments were produced with a swish and a flourish. Bea went into a changing cubicle, slid into the skirt and a creamy silk top, pulled on the matching jacket and stepped out into the shop to check on her back view … only to come face to face with Charlotte.

  The girl looked exactly like a hedgehog, peering from under a too long fringe through heavy, dark-rimmed glasses. ‘What are you doing …? I don’t understand. You’re Mrs Thing, aren’t you? But you can’t be … are you really Maggie’s boss as well?’

  ‘Well, yes, I am,’ said Bea, wondering whether this was a stroke of luck or of dire misfortune. How could she turn this encounter to her advantage? ‘I’m also newly widowed. My dear Maggie very kindly thought it would be a distraction for me if I went out into the field again, so …’

  Charlotte was not convinced. She looked at her watch, gnawing her lip. She was holding a sad-coloured blouse which was all wrong for her colouring, and wearing jeans which bunched around her bottom and heels.

  Bea said, ‘Look, may I treat you to a coffee somewhere? I’m hoping to catch up with Maggie later on, but …’

  ‘I mustn’t be too long. I’m meeting Liam – my boyfriend – at six.’

  ‘So we have time for a quick one, right?’

  Charlotte was not gracious. She shrugged, gave the blouse to the hovering Jeannine and said, ‘I wish I were tall enough to wear the clothes you’ve got on. They don’t seem to have anything to suit me in here.’

  They did, of course, but Charlotte was clearly unable to distinguish between what would and what would not look right on her.

  ‘Coffee?’ said Bea, being bright. And to Jeannine, ‘Would you put these aside for me? I’ll come back tomorrow for them, right?’

  Once out of the shop Charlotte would have dived into the nearest café catering for tourists, but Bea led her across the road into a quiet lane where there was a coffee shop patronized by residents and regular visitors who knew a good thing when they saw one. It was quiet, immaculate, and with its dark panelling encouraged a feeling of warmth and security. Ideal for putting Charlotte at ease.

  Charlotte grumbled, ‘I’ve drunk too much coffee already.’

  ‘I’m only just off the train,’ said Bea. ‘I really need something. My treat.’

  ‘I’ve got to be changed and back in the market by six.’

  Bea tried not to notice how ungracious the girl was. ‘Plenty of time.’

  ‘Are you really Maggie’s boss? I don’t understand. This is all just so … Liam missing the train, and Maggie being difficult and going off by herself, and now you turning up. It’s all just so … stupid.’

  ‘Let me explain. I run a small domestic employment agency and Maggie is my PA, currently organizing a make-over on the offices in my house. My husband died a while back and I’ve been a bit depressed. You know how it is?’

  Charlotte nodded. ‘My mum gets depresse
d. Takes pills for it.’

  ‘Yes, well, I didn’t want to start taking pills—’

  The waiter took their order.

  Bea continued, ‘So I tried to work harder than ever. Maggie said I ought to take a holiday, and I told her I always used to come here with my dear husband and buy some clothes and … well, she said I ought to come again, though I didn’t think, really, that I ought to do so. I thought it might make me feel worse, if you see what I mean?’

  ‘My mum’s the same. Wouldn’t come down to visit me in London this year because she always used to come with Dad. I had to go up there, instead.’

  Bea was pleased to see they’d established some kind of rapport. ‘Then dear Maggie wanted to spread her wings, find herself a place in a flat where she could meet lots of new people. She’s been through a nasty divorce, you know. I didn’t want her to move out really, but I could see it was for the best.’

  Charlotte nodded. ‘Stand on her own two feet. Meet people.’

  The waiter brought coffee and strawberry tart for Bea, and hot chocolate for Charlotte. Bea paid the bill and decided to take a risk. ‘Maggie moved out, and of course I was happy for her, but just a little worried that she’d fallen for a young man about whom she knew nothing.’

  ‘Zander. He’s OK. If you like that sort of thing.’

  Bea said, ‘I just hope Maggie’s not going to get hurt again.’

  Charlotte shrugged. ‘I told her he wasn’t taking her seriously, when she was griping about his letting us down. She didn’t like that, but it was for her own good. It’s funny, though. I was surprised when he said he’d come with us to Bruges – he’s a workaholic, you know – but I was even more surprised when he cried off. I didn’t think he was the sort to break promises.’