Oliver said, ‘That’ll be Mrs Green. Shall I put her off?’
Bea shook her head, got to her feet, clutched her mug of tea and tottered down the stairs to let Florrie in.
‘Sorry to bring you in, Florrie. Oh, you’ve brought Yvonne and Maria as well? Go through to the room at the back, will you?’
‘You look rough, Mrs Abbot,’ observed Florrie, humping a couple of black bags in with her. Yvonne and Maria were also humping black bags. Three large ladies, they installed themselves on the big chair and the settee in Bea’s office.
Florrie, aged sixty but dyed to look forty and almost succeeding, had a florid complexion and muscles of iron. The other two had identical blonde poodle haircuts and looked as stringy as long-distance runners. A formidable crew.
Florrie was the spokeswoman. ‘Tillie couldn’t make it. Had to pick up her grandson from school. You’ve caught us between jobs but we can’t stop long because we start cleaning the school at the back here in an hour. So what set the alarm bells off, eh?’
Bea eyed the sacks. ‘Is that all the stuff you took from the flat this morning?’
‘All but what Tillie’s taken home already, a duvet and some pillows, almost new by the look of them.’
Bea sank into her chair. ‘Sorry, sorry. I know you have a right to keep anything you find when you clear a flat, unless instructed otherwise. This time, well, the man who let you into the flats … it was a man, wasn’t it …?’
‘Youngish, rat-faced, on the landline most of the time we were there. His name was Liam, if you can go by the name he gave when he answered the phone. Told us his name was Forbes and he’d pay cash, then found he hadn’t got any cash and said Maggie something would pay as she was living there at the moment and worked for you. That was after we’d cleaned, of course. So what’s pressed the alarm bell?’
‘Do you know who Liam was on the phone to?’
Florrie shrugged. ‘Wasn’t listening. Some girl or other. Kiss kiss, mucky talk about crotchless panties.’ She turned to the others. ‘Anyone else hear anything?’
Yvonne nodded. ‘Times of trains. Boat trains. Ireland, at a guess.’
Maria contradicted her. ‘Flights out of Heathrow, I heard. Airport, anyway. Gatwick, maybe Stansted? We usually fly from Stansted when we go on holiday.’
‘Ireland?’ asked Bea, sipping tea. ‘Oh, sorry, ladies. Would you like a cuppa?’
‘Just had one,’ said Florrie. ‘Thanks all the same. What’s this all about, then? He cleaned out the kitty and did a runner?’
‘Something like that. One of Liam’s flatmates thought he was going to propose to her on a city-break in Bruges, but he didn’t turn up and now he’s missing. She wants me to find him if I can.’ Which was all true, sort of.
‘Ireland,’ said Yvonne. ‘He was asking some friend about a job “back home”. Southern Ireland, by his accent. I know the type. She’s well rid of him, if you ask me.’
‘Only thing,’ said Florrie, ‘was he going with a boyfriend? He didn’t look homo, and I should know with my youngest being that way.’
Bea followed this with difficulty. ‘You thought Liam might have been going off with one of his male flatmates, because he wanted his and another man’s room stripped out?’ The three women nodded. They’d obviously talked about this already.
Florrie said, ‘Makes sense. He said to clean his room and the one next to it, but to leave the third man’s and the girls’ room alone. He showed us what we could clear out of the fridge and the kitchen, take the lot except for what was on one shelf. He said that belonged to the girls and to leave it alone. So what are we supposed to have done wrong, eh?’
Bea tried to make sense of this. ‘One of his flatmates – a man called Zander, who kept his room neat and tidy – went off some time last weekend, leaving all his belongings behind. They were still there first thing yesterday morning, but they’re not there now. There was a lot of stuff.’ She looked at the three bags the women had brought in with them. ‘Did you find a telly, a load of books, a laptop, a briefcase and a really good leather jacket?’
Yvonne shook her head. ‘There wasn’t that much left in the room you’re talking about. Some bedding. Tillie took that.’
Florrie confirmed it. ‘The cupboard was bare. Hardly any rubbish, either.’
Bea was flummoxed. ‘Then what happened to all his stuff?’
Maria was indignant. ‘You think we tell lies?’
‘No, no. I believe you, but it doesn’t make sense. Anyway, let’s look at what you did take. If there’s anything I need for this girl Liam bamboozled, I’ll buy it off you. Otherwise, ladies, it’s all yours.’
They spread out the contents of the three bags on the floor one by one. There was some bedding, old clothes, shoes that needed repair, paperback books. There were towels, some clean, some used, a useless mobile phone, some CDs without their cases.
‘All from Liam’s room,’ said Florrie. ‘There was some magazines – the top shelf sort, you know? – but you wouldn’t be wanting them, would you?’
Bea agreed she wouldn’t. ‘You didn’t touch the third man’s room – Philip’s?’
‘Liam said not to bother, so we didn’t.’
‘You say Liam was on the phone a lot. Did he write anything on a pad by the phone? People often do when they’re getting times of trains.’
Florrie said, ‘There was a wodge of paper in the wastepaper bin. It went out with the rubbish.’
‘What about the tins and foodstuffs you took from the kitchen?’
Florrie sighed. ‘That sack was heavy. I left it in my little car outside, which reminds me that I’d best get it moved, or it’ll get clamped. Do you need the tins?’
Bea shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think I do. Thanks, Florrie. And you, Yvonne and Maria. Tell Tillie thanks from me, too. Now I’ll get your money and you can be off to your next job, right?’
Rafael was fit to be tied. Liam’s office said he’d been called home to Ireland unexpectedly, a death in the family. No address. Rafael had lost his second-in-command just when he needed him most!
He told himself to calm down. He’d had set-backs before and overcome them. It had been a set-back when his usual courier got himself written off, but now he’d got the girls and they’d be even better. They’d delivered the gold boxes and miniatures so he could wipe that off his list.
Only, without Liam to keep the girls happy, they might start talking. Rafael checked with the hotel which Liam had said the girls were using, only to be told that they’d left that morning. So far, so good. He’d catch up with them later.
Now for the Weston house. Rafael had taken another turn round there in his lunch break and noted that the milk and papers had been taken in again. Philip was certainly there, and where Philip was, the Millais was bound to be.
Philip had talked a lot about how rich his new stepmother was, and how she always wore several expensive diamond rings. They would do very nicely, plus the Millais, of course. Would the diamonds be kept in a safe? Well, Philip would know.
Yes, he would pay Philip a visit tonight.
Fifteen
Tuesday early evening
Maggie galumphed down the stairs to Bea’s office in the basement. The girl had changed into a T-shirt and jeans but they were a good fit and the colours suited her. Maggie was learning what she could wear and what she couldn’t. The problem was that most of what suited her had been ‘borrowed’ from Bea’s wardrobe. Bea recognized one of her favourite T-shirts, but was too weary to object. Her headache was increasing.
Maggie was full of nervous energy. ‘Charlotte wanted to use your bathroom but I told her “no”. She’s complaining that she’s used to a bath and there’s only a shower cubicle in her en suite, and I still said “no”. She said she’d be sick on the stairs if she had to climb to the top floor to use my bath, and I said that if she was sick, she could clean it up herself. So she feels much better now.’
Bea hadn’t thought she could laugh again, but
she did.
‘Charlotte’s got a new bee in her bonnet. She’s decided that Liam hasn’t contacted her because he’s been beaten up by his so-called “friend” for warning her about the smuggling. She’s ringing round all the hospitals to see if Liam’s been admitted to one of them.’
‘You can tell her Liam’s been enquiring about trains and flights to Dublin.’
‘I don’t think she wants to be confused with facts.’
‘Poor girl,’ said Bea. ‘Hasn’t she ever had a man pay attention to her before? No, don’t answer that. Of course she hasn’t.’
‘I was like that, once,’ said Maggie, reddening. ‘All awkward corners and grateful for the slightest attention. You were very good to put up with me.’
‘A pleasure,’ said Bea, almost meaning it. ‘And before I forget, I’m really pleased to have you back.’
Maggie fidgeted with her belt. ‘Mrs Abbot, what about Zander?’
Bea took the bridge of her nose between two fingers. ‘I know. It’s worrying. I checked with the cleaners and they didn’t take his belongings. When you went out with him on Sunday to feed the ducks—’
‘Kew Gardens. It was fun.’
‘He didn’t say anything to you then about going to Bruges the next day?’
‘No, it was Liam who told us about that. Liam said he and Zander were going to plan it all later that evening but they were ever so late getting back. I think I was asleep before they came in. Charlotte, too.’
And nobody had seen him since. Bea tried to think it through. Liam told Charlotte that Zander had been called away, something to do with work, but his toilet things were still at the flat on Monday morning and his belongings didn’t get packed up till later that day … by someone who was far from neat, which didn’t sound like Zander.
‘I’m wondering,’ said Bea, ‘if Zander got caught up in the smuggling ring, too. Liam wasn’t the boss of the smuggling ring, was he? Liam was taking orders, seemed afraid of whoever it was. Liam’s boss is the mastermind behind these art thefts. We know he’s already killed twice, so it makes sense that Liam’s scared of him.
‘Suppose Zander told Mr Mastermind that he wanted out and got himself killed as a result. Mastermind then told Liam to make up a story to account for Zander’s absence and either he or Liam removed Zander’s belongings to make it seem that he’d disappeared of his own volition.’
Maggie opened and shut her mouth in horror. ‘That’s … awful. I’m sure you’re wrong, but … oh, no! You think he’s dead? But … but if we went to the police, it would all come out that we’d been smuggling stolen goods out of the country, wouldn’t it?’ She ran her fingers up through her hair and held on to her head. ‘Mrs Abbot, I haven’t thanked you yet for getting us back in one piece. Believe me, I’ll be grateful till the day I die. But if we tell the police what we suspect … can you think of another way?’
‘I glanced through a newspaper yesterday at the station and there was nothing about a body having been found. Suppose you start ringing round the hospitals yourself. Ask if a man answering Zander’s description has been brought in. Say he’s a flatmate of yours, hasn’t been seen since Sunday afternoon.’
Maggie said, ‘I’ll try.’ And collided with Oliver on her way out.
Bea got to her feet. ‘Sorry, Oliver. I’ve no time for agency business. I have to find rubber gloves and go through some rubbish.’
He put on a ‘wounded but willing to follow you till death’ expression as he followed her up the stairs. ‘Let me help.’
‘Is this what I pay you a fantastic salary for?’
Icily polite, he said, ‘If you think this is more important than attending to business, then so be it. Tell me what we’re looking for.’
She found a pair of rubber gloves, spread newspapers out on the work surface in the kitchen, and emptied out the black bin bag Maggie had extracted from the basement of the flats. ‘We’re looking for anything which might give us a lead as to where Zander, Philip or Liam might have gone. A telephone number for Mastermind would be helpful, too.’
‘Who’s Mastermind?’
‘I’ll tell you all about it as we search through the debris. We want till receipts. Scraps of paper with names and addresses on. You know how people doodle when they’re talking on the phone? Initials, telephone numbers. Liam was apparently taking down times of trains, possibly to Ireland. Bank statements might be helpful. Doctor’s prescription forms. Letters or notes from friends or relatives. Photos. This is the sum total of what was taken from the wastepaper baskets in the flat today, plus … yuck … fast-food containers, opened packets of food, and this must be stuff from the fridge. You’ll need rubber gloves, too. Put everything even faintly possible on to one side and we’ll go through it in detail.’
‘You remember asking me to get some numbers off Philip’s phone? Well, I did that and have a list here. Will that help?’
‘I’m sure it will. We’ll look at them later.’
Maggie padded into the kitchen, showing too much white around her eyes. ‘Central Middlesex. They’ve got a man answering to Zander’s description who was knifed, beaten up and left to die in a car park near a Tube station somewhere on the District line. He was found by a commuter early yesterday morning, probably been there all night. Robbery, they thought, because he’s no ID, no money or other forms of identification on him. Unconscious when brought in, but showing signs of coming round now.’
Bea and Oliver suspended operations to listen. Maggie said, aiming for jaunty, ‘Of course, it might not be him. What would he be doing out there, eh?’
Bea guessed, ‘Meeting Mr Mastermind? Remember Liam said he was going to have a meeting with Zander late Sunday night? You’d better go out there, see if you recognize him. Order a minicab, one of those the agency always uses, put it on our tab. Get the driver to wait for you, no matter how long. Don’t get caught in dark alleys.’
Maggie turned even paler than before. Clearly she hadn’t realized – as Bea had – that the three of them might become targets once Bea’s trick was exposed.
‘Trust me.’
Maggie reached for her phone.
Oliver looked affronted. ‘Could anyone bear to let me know what’s going on?’
The front doorbell pealed. Maggie yelled, ‘I’ll get it,’ and disappeared. They heard her open the front door and greet someone by name. Piers.
‘Bother,’ said Bea. ‘I forgot to ring him back.’
Piers strolled into the kitchen. ‘Any chance of a cuppa, Bea, since you stood me up last night? Or something stronger?’ He took in the mess, and grinned. ‘Let me guess. You’re creating the latest entry for the Turner Prize, or you’ve lost a cheque that ought to have been paid into the agency account.’
Bea wasn’t sure whether to hit him or kiss him. ‘Sorry about last night. Things got a trifle difficult. Have you any news about Philip and the missing picture?’
Oliver interrupted, holding up a fan of tickets. ‘Eurostar tickets. You want them?’
‘Definitely. Piers, I suggest you stand well back. You don’t want to get those good clothes dirty.’
‘You’re not wearing an apron, I notice.’ With the tips of his fingers Piers withdrew a sheet of lined paper from a crushed pack of cereal. ‘Suppose I arm myself with a knife and fork? Or perhaps a spoon and fork? There’s some broken glass here that’s posing a nice threat to my earning capacity. Are we looking for anything in particular?’
Bea sighed. ‘All right. Let me tell it from the beginning, if I can work out where the beginning was. Philip Weston – Velma’s stepson – disappeared with an important picture. I don’t know whether his disappearance was connected with what happened next or not, but this is what I’ve worked out so far …’
As she talked, the bells of St Mary’s Church proclaimed the hour, and with one part of her mind Bea recalled the chimes of Bruges. She wondered what Mr Van would do when he discovered he’d been fooled. She didn’t think he’d write the episode off to experience. H
e’d be on the phone to his partner over here, the man who had killed twice already, who’d be on her trail straight away. She’d gained a day with her subterfuge, but was up against time. She must find some clues to the vanishing men and tell Mr Goldstone, who could tell the police, before Mr Van informed Mastermind that she’d walked off with the prize.
Her headache increased.
Oliver made a disgusted sound, scraping what looked like soft cheese from a piece of paper with pen marks on it. ‘I think this says “Boat” followed by some figures. Times the boat-train leaves? The paper’s torn across just under it.’
Bea tried not to gag as she investigated something murky. ‘I wouldn’t mind a gas mask. Try to find the other half.’ She lifted out some scraps of paper. A photograph, torn in pieces? Lots of junk mail. The stubs of a chequebook. Lloyds Bank. No amounts, payee names or dates had been filled in. Nothing infuriated Bea more than people not filling in cheque stubs. Which one of the three had banked with Lloyds? Who would know? Charlotte?
Where was Charlotte, anyway? The house was very quiet. Too quiet. When Maggie was in the house it resounded with music but Maggie was on her way to be reunited with her boyfriend. Maybe.
‘I think that’s the lot,’ said Piers, prodding a mess of what looked like chutney. Or maybe it was jam. ‘Now, who’s good at jigsaws?’
Bea shovelled the debris back into the rubbish bag, and they laid out their finds on the kitchen table.
Piers said, ‘I suppose I’d better take the photographs.’ He set to work.
Bea shuffled Euro tickets. ‘He didn’t spend long in Brussels, did he? No sooner had he arrived than he caught the next train back.’
Oliver bent over scraps of paper, trying to fit them together. ‘At least two different handwritings. One uses black ink, the other bright blue … and here’s something in pencil.’
‘Pretty girl, this,’ said Piers, professional instincts to the fore as he pieced a girl’s torso together. ‘Too much cleavage in front and too little up top, but some men would like her. There’s a name on the back. I think it’s “Pat”, or maybe “Dot”. Or … hang about, there’s another bit here.’
False Picture Page 20
