False Pretences

by Veronica Heley

  ‘The biggest outgoing – and it’s huge – is on maintenance, but the Director responsible was always saying that they need to do more, because elderly buildings need money spent on them to keep up with today’s Health & Safety regulations. Fire doors. Lifts. Heating. Rewiring, and so on.

  ‘I started to look at the cost of maintaining the buildings. For years the Trust had put all its maintenance work out to a building contractor called Corcoran & Sons. Recently Great Granddaddy – Lord Murchison – had suggested diversifying by splitting the work between Corcorans and another firm, in which he had shares. Naturally,’ his voice flattened, ‘they wouldn’t consider using a firm whose directors they didn’t know personally.’

  ‘As usual the directors had been divided in their opinion about using a firm new to the Trust, but he’d overridden them to arrange for this second firm to rewire one building while Corcorans rewired another. Both contracts had just been completed and the invoices received. As part of my job I opened the post and took the bills through to the Maintenance Director for checking and payment, and I happened to notice that one bill was for twice the amount of the other. For the same work.

  ‘We are not talking peanuts. The Maintenance Director saw that I’d spotted the discrepancy and remarked that it was always better to use good workmen, even if they were more expensive, rather than those who bodged the job. He sold that idea to the board, who agreed to continue with Corcorans, though they did murmur that perhaps they ought to ask one or two other firms to quote for jobs as well. The figures burned into my brain. I started to go through invoices from Corcorans for the past few months. They’d been charging astronomical sums for changing a couple of light bulbs. The repair of a door hinge would pay a family’s gas bill for a quarter.

  ‘There were a number of small maintenance jobs on hand waiting for attention. I arranged for half of these jobs to go to Corcorans as usual, but I asked the firm recommended by Lord Murchison to attend to the rest. Corcorans came in at roughly double what the others would have charged.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do. I’d overstepped the mark, I’d gone behind the director’s back, and I told myself that if there really had been anything wrong, someone else would have spotted it, and that if they continued to ask for quotes, the scam – if there was a scam – would die a natural death.’

  Bea nodded. She could see how tempting it must have been to do nothing.

  ‘Only, the more I played around with the figures, added up a possible overspend here and there, the more I realized that, if someone had been fiddling the books, they might have got away with half a million, maybe more. I assume that Corcorans had either been greedy and been taking the Trust for a ride or, perhaps, that someone in the Trust had been taking a kickback for throwing work their way.’

  He braced himself. ‘The only person who could have swung such a scam was the director in charge of maintenance, who was on excellent terms with the managing director of Corcorans, even had him in to lunch once a month. This particular director bullied the staff and fawned on the other directors. He referred to me by names that, well, if I’d wanted to make trouble, meant I could have taken him to a race tribunal. I told myself it was a cultural thing, that he’d been brought up to think the British were top dogs, the Empire lives on, public schools rule OK.’

  Bea nodded. Oh yes, she could well believe that Zander would bend over backwards to avoid being thought prejudiced. ‘Don’t tell me; he was a public school type who wasn’t trained for the job but thought the world owed him a good living? Someone with a triple-barrelled name such as Montgomery-Peniston-Farquahar?’

  A dimple appeared on Zander’s cheek. He really was a most attractive man. ‘You’ve missed something. The title. He’s an Honourable, and his wife is a Lady. He told me that, if we ever met, I must call her “Lady Honoria” at first and then “My lady”.’

  ‘But in the end you did take your research to the board of directors. And . . .?’

  ‘I thought I might be laughed out of court, because the evidence was all circumstantial. He put up a brilliant defence. I wondered – I still wonder – if he was more stupid than sly. I can hear him now, saying that good workmanship always costs more but is economic in the long run. He pointed out that he’d given the best years of his life to the Trust and had never taken a penny more than the honorarium and expenses which they were all allowed.’

  ‘What did he live on, if he only took an honorarium from the Trust?’

  ‘Stocks and shares, inherited wealth. He said he’d done his best, had been tearing his hair out trying to make ends meet, and would of course resign if they wished. I could see the board of directors thinking that of course he’d meant well, and if he’d misjudged Corcorans, well, they might have done the same thing. One of them even started to blame himself that he hadn’t spotted the problem earlier.’

  ‘They preferred to think him incompetent rather than criminal? Hmm. Ignorance is no defence in law, and usually gets thumped for it.’

  ‘I could see they were going to close ranks against me and that I’d be out on the street in no time. So I chanced everything on one question. I asked if he’d show his bank statements to Lord Murchison, to prove that he’d not received any kickbacks from the builders. He collapsed, and I was sent home.

  ‘I don’t know what went on after I left, but that evening he had a heart attack and died. The verdict of heart failure was accepted with some relief by all and sundry, and no one uttered a word about people fiddling the books.

  ‘Unfortunately his widow is a formidable person. She said that we’d driven her husband to his grave. She vowed to sue the Trust for libel, slander and the cost of dry-cleaning the clothes he died in. The Trust couldn’t afford to pay her off and couldn’t afford to let it be known that one of their directors had been accused of embezzlement. Delegates of directors traipsed out to see his wife, trying to resolve the situation. Eventually they succeeded . . . but she’s asked for my head on a platter.’

  He flicked a finger at the cardboard box. ‘These are the personal contents of his office. She’s requested that I take them out to her, when I understand she’ll decide whether or not I am to keep my job. The directors wipe sweat off their brows. Most of them would be happy to see me go in order to close the books, but one in particular would like to play fair. He advised me to grovel and said that, if I do get the sack, he’ll see that I get some kind of pay-off. It’s true that I do feel responsible for the Honourable Denzil’s death. If I hadn’t pointed the finger at him he’d probably still be alive and, even if he was as corrupt as I imagined, I couldn’t wish death upon anyone.’

  ‘It’s weighing on your mind?’

  He lifted his hand and let it fall. Yes, it was. Bea remembered now that this man believed in a loving God, that he attended church and read his Bible. He was a man who tried to do the right thing in a world which didn’t much care about right and wrong any more. If it ever had done, which she thought unlikely.

  Bea laced her fingers and leaned her chin on them. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I need backup, someone to come with me when I take this stuff back to his wife. I need an impartial observer. I understand that Lady Honoria shared her husband’s view of people of mixed race, and to be frank I’m not sure how much more racial abuse I can take. If she starts . . . No, I know it’s no good losing my temper with her. When I was first advised to grovel to her, I thought that I’d tell her to get lost. But I like the job, and I don’t see why she should be able to get me sacked for what I did. Then I thought that, if she tried to sack me, I’d say I’d go to an industrial tribunal and then all her husband’s little ways would come out into the open. She wouldn’t want that, would she? Oliver’s told me a lot about you and the problems you’ve solved for other people. I thought that if anyone could, you might be able to face her down, point out the law to her.’

  And he wasn’t averse to seeing Maggie again. Hmm.

  He said, ‘You don’t actually have to
pretend to be a solicitor, but a hint of that might help?’ He produced a chequebook. ‘Your fee? I’m willing to pay in advance.’

  Bea swivelled round to look out of the window. If Zander was right, and she rather thought he was, then a large-scale fraud had been perpetrated – and possibly was still continuing – on the people at the Trust.

  Fatigue dragged her down. She simply hadn’t the energy to help him. In any case, what excuse could she make to accompany him to see the widow, and what difference could she make if she did?

  It was his own fault that he’d got himself into such a mess. Such naivety was asking for it.

  He exclaimed something, and she turned back to see a slow tide of red climbing up from his throat to his hairline.

  Ouch. Had she spoken her thoughts aloud? ‘Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Yes, you did. And you’re quite right. I always want to give people the benefit of the doubt until . . . No, you’re right. Forgive me. I shouldn’t have come.’

  Bea pressed her fingers to her eyelids. Her dear dead husband had always liked to look for the best in people, too. Although he’d often been disappointed, he’d always gone on hoping. But when he’d come across something nasty, he’d not hesitated to do something about it. So what would he have done in such a case?

  She had a sudden vision of Hamilton wrinkling his nose, saying, ‘I smell Roquefort!’

  Yes, she could smell strong cheese, too.

  She said, ‘It was a very timely death, wasn’t it? What were the circumstances?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think he got home and just dropped dead. There’s to be a big funeral and then a memorial service.’

  She said, ‘I don’t fancy pretending to be a solicitor, although I do agree that it might be as well for you to have a witness when you see her. I suppose I could carry a briefcase and look professional, but—’

  ‘That’s all I need. A witness with a cool head.’

  ‘When do you have to visit her?’

  ‘Tomorrow at eleven.’ He stood, smiling. ‘The only thing is, can you drive me? I haven’t a car.’

  Friday evening

  Honoria contained her rage with an effort. If only Denzil had been more careful! How often had she told him . . .! And now look where he’d landed her, having to do battle with the Trust to keep the manor going. Well, she could do it. Of course she could. Hadn’t she been the power behind his throne for ever?

  The worst of it was, she’d have to find a replacement for Corcorans. Sandy thought they could continue as before. More fool him. On the other hand, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find another building firm sympathetic to her point of view, and if Sandy started to be difficult then . . . out goes he!

  First get the practicalities out of the way. The funeral. No one had queried the death certificate. Dicky heart, natural causes. She must put in another stint on the phone, advising people about the funeral. Tiresome, but necessary. At least no one expected her to act the part of the grieving widow, since Denzil’s weakness for young girls had been well known.

  Honoria grinned. In due course she was going to take her revenge on the little sluts who’d encouraged him to stray, but first things first. There would be time for pleasure once the business end of things had been tied up.

  Tomorrow she’d deal with the coffee-flavoured troublemaker. She didn’t anticipate any difficulty. She’d teach him his place, and that would be that.

  TWO

  Friday evening

  Bea climbed the stairs from the agency rooms to the kitchen, pulling herself up by hanging on to the banister. Whatever was the matter with her? She knew, really. Age and grief.Sixty wasn’t old, but grief was a killer.

  Maggie, tall and gawky, was crashing around the kitchen in a scorching temper. Bea braced herself; she did not feel like taking on Maggie in a tantrum.

  Oliver was laying the table for supper but as usual had put the knives and forks the wrong way round, irritating both Bea and Maggie. He hadn’t even the excuse that he’d been brought up in a family that ate off its knees in front of the telly, since the first eighteen years of his life had been spent as the adopted son of an English headmaster and his wife. He hadn’t fitted in there very well, and on discovering something nasty on his father’s laptop, had been thrown out of the house . . . only to be rescued and brought to Bea by Maggie, rather as one brings home a stray cat. Since then he’d become Bea’s right hand at the agency and was turning into a handsome young man.

  Bea failed to understand how Oliver could make a computer juggle statistics but become a cack-handed idiot when faced with domestic chores such as laying the table. Personally, she blamed Maggie for mollycoddling him.

  Maggie, on the other hand, could only perform the most basic functions on a computer but had developed into a successful project manager, while at the same time running their four-storey Kensington house with noisy efficiency. And she knew how to lay a table properly.

  Winston, their long-haired black cat, made as if to jump up on to the work surface . . . and nearly got swiped by Maggie with a pan. Winston knew when it was best to make himself scarce. He plopped out of the cat flap on to the iron staircase that led down into the garden.

  Bea wished she could do the same.

  Maggie shot evil glances at Oliver as she dished up some of her special meatballs in tomato sauce, with spaghetti and baby courgettes.

  ‘. . . and I thought I’d made it quite clear that I did not, repeat NOT, want Zander hanging around with his tongue out. I hope you told him I was going out with a rich property developer. Make that the owner of a football club, or better still, a polo-playing South American. What excuse did he make this time?’

  Oliver lifted both shoulders as she brandished a pan close to his head.

  ‘He’s in trouble,’ said Bea, pushing herself to defend him.

  ‘So why come here?’ Maggie thumped a bowl of grated Parmesan on to the table. ‘Unless, of course, Oliver told him to. That’s it, isn’t it, Oliver? You’ve been sneaking out behind my back to go to the pub with him. Do you think I’m blind and deaf? You make arrangements to see him on your mobile late at night, when I’m trying to get to sleep.’

  Oliver rolled his eyes, and held his tongue. Wise lad.

  Bea said, ‘Zander’s been subjected to a lot of racist abuse. He blew the whistle on his boss, who then died. He’s got to see the widow tomorrow, and he wants me to drive him there and see fair play. He’s afraid he’s going to get the sack.’

  ‘If you believe that . . .!’ snorted Maggie, winding spaghetti round her fork as to the manner born. Her make-up was imaginative, her short hair was bright orange this week, and she was wearing a sequinned top, the clashing colours of which made Bea blink. Oh, and scarlet shorts. A sight to terrify . . . which was probably her intention. Maggie’s pushy mother and ex-husband had made her feel worthless. Was this extreme get-up her way of fighting back?

  ‘I believe he could do with a spot of good luck for a change,’ said Bea, forcing small mouthfuls down.

  ‘So do I,’ said Oliver, clearing his plate and looking for seconds. ‘I like him, I sympathize with what he’s had to go through – all the racial slurs and that – and I’d like to help him.’

  ‘Oh, you!’ said Maggie, her fury evaporating as fast as it had arisen. Maggie was pretty well colour-blind as far as race was concerned, as was Bea. But they both knew racial prejudice did still crop up in social life and in the workplace.

  Bea put down her fork, her food half-eaten. ‘Sorry, Maggie. I don’t seem hungry.’

  Maggie switched from virago to mother hen. ‘I thought you were looking a bit off colour. Throat sore? Glands up? There’s a lot of it about. Why don’t you go to bed early and I’ll bring you up some of that stuff which is supposed to stave off colds for twenty-four hours, though what happens after that I’ve never been able to work out. Does the cold come back again? Or go away for good?’

  ‘I promised Max I’d go with him to some reception or
other at the House of Commons.’

  Oliver reached for his mobile. ‘He won’t want you there if you’re incubating flu. I’ll give him a ring, make your excuses.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ The prospect of not having to talk to anyone for a couple of hours was enticing. Let Oliver make her excuses. She wasn’t tired, exactly. Just screaming with pain. ‘I suppose I could do with an early night, but then tomorrow I’ve promised to take Zander out to wherever it is, somewhere in the country. Don’t let me oversleep.’

  ‘I’ll drive you,’ said Oliver. ‘No problem. Now if only I had a cap and uniform jacket, I could pass as your chauffeur. I’d like to see this famous old house that Lady Honoria owns. Zander says it’s been in the family for yonks, should be handed over to the National Trust but Her Ladyship won’t let go of it. What price her husband’s death turns out to be murder? I do like a good murder.’

  ‘Shut up, you!’ said Maggie, tipping Bea’s half-eaten plateful of food on to his. ‘Can’t you see she needs to be quiet for a bit?’

  Bea shook her head at him. ‘Behave yourself, Oliver. Nobody’s hinted at murder.’

  ‘That’s what you’ve said before, and each time you were wrong. Murders mean extra work for us; that means a bonus, and I’m saving for a car.’

  Maggie said, ‘Lunkhead!’ and swiped a hand at his head. He ducked, smiling.

  Bea produced a wan smile, too. She knew what they were both thinking. Yes, they were both fond of her in their own way, but they also knew that if she were ill their jobs with the agency would evaporate because she was the agency. If they could do something to help her back to her normal self, they would.

  She climbed the stairs to her bedroom but was too wound-up to go to bed. She was beginning to wear a track in the carpet from the front windows overlooking the tree-lined Kensington street, to the back window overlooking the garden. At each window she paused, now looking out over the quiet street, and now across the back garden and up through the branches of the sycamore tree to the steeple of St Mary Abbot’s church. Hamilton had loved that view. She liked it, too.