‘I can do better than that. I have a rather good bottle of champagne here. Shall I bring it round? I don’t suggest your coming here as my son appears to be having a rave-up downstairs.’
‘I can offer a quiet room overlooking a peaceful garden. I would suggest we open the bottle in the garden, but I’m a martyr to midges.’
‘Ten minutes.’
She felt better already. She looked down at what she was wearing, thought it was boringly biscuit-coloured, but did nothing about it. She renewed her lipstick and ran a comb through ash-blonde hair, making the fringe lie aslant across her forehead. Checked her make-up, giving a passing regretful thought to young Kylie and her probable descent into prostitution.
She was upstairs, tidying the big sitting room, when he rang the bell. A quiet man, grey and thin, who drifted like smoke into the house and opened the champagne with the minimum of fuss.
She had glasses ready; they sipped, expressed approval, settled into comfortable chairs in the sitting room. The blinds and shutters were closed at the front of the house, the French windows at the back left open to let in the cooler evening air.
He was wearing grey, shirt and trousers. He had grey eyes and a finely cut nose over a long upper lip. A wide mouth, a satisfactorily sharp chin. The skin on his neck was not yet deeply seamed, so he was probably younger than his air of fragility would seem to indicate. About her own age?
He set down his glass. ‘So, rant away.’
‘A question first. What do you know of the Tudor Trust headed by Lord Murchison?’
He was still for a moment then picked up his glass again, to sip at the champagne. To gain time? ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Another question; when is a woman entitled to call herself Lady Honoria?’
The faintest of wrinkles on his brow. ‘I’m sure you know as much about the peerage as I do.’
‘I doubt it.’ She put her glass down with a click. ‘I’m guessing that you know Lord Murchison socially, and that you would know how to uncover a scandal which he would very much like to keep quiet. Am I right?’
‘I think you’d better start ranting. I’m totally in the dark at the moment.’
She didn’t think he was. He knew something, she could sense it. His middle name was probably Discretion, or Loyalty. Could she prise him open? Not if he didn’t want to be prised, no. But she had a feeling that even if he denied all knowledge of Lord Murchison, even if he told her she was barking mad, he’d not forget what he’d been told and might even do something about it.
If she pitched her tale well enough.
‘We start,’ she said, ‘with an innocent abroad, who happens to be of mixed race but is what my parents would have called one of nature’s gentlemen. A man who believes in God, who enjoyed his work helping other people. He suffered some racial abuse but put up with it, until . . .’
She talked on, while the light faded. He refilled her glass once, but she refused any more after that. When she’d finished telling him what had happened that day, she said, ‘So tell me I’m being stupid. Tell me I can go to bed and forget what’s happened, that it’s nothing to do with me.’
His eyes had been fixed on her all the time she’d been talking. She suspected that if asked to repeat what she’d said, he’d be able to do it without missing a word.
Now he let his eyes wander round the room. He could probably produce an inventory of her room without taking notes.
He got to his feet and, hands behind his back, walked over to inspect her dear husband’s portrait, which hung beside the back window.
‘Who did this? It’s good.’
‘My first husband, the portrait painter. Surprisingly, they were good friends for some years before . . . before. Hamilton used to say he smelled Roquefort when something odd like this came up.’
‘I met him once. There was some suggestion of putting him in for an honour in the Queen’s birthday list. He refused, said he was dying. Cancer, wasn’t it? A loss.’
She was not going to cry. No. Where had she left her handbag? Did she have a hankie on her? Probably not. She sniffed, hard.
He said, ‘Do you really think Honoria has invented a title for herself?’
‘I don’t know.’ Sniff. ‘She’s a detestable woman.’
‘That’s no grounds for wanting her investigated.’
‘No, I don’t suppose it is. I told you, I just needed to rant and rave.’
‘The racist slurs. You say the man won’t prosecute?’
‘Would you?’
He resumed his seat, steepled long fingers. ‘You’ve no proof of anything but racial abuse. Tell your client to return to work and make notes of anything else racist which is said to him. Get him to threaten to prosecute, to go to the press. That should stir things up nicely. Meanwhile, I’ll get you an interview with Tommy Murchison, whose son was in the army with me. Tommy’s no fool. It will be interesting to hear what he thinks about all this. Roquefort, you say?’ He lifted his glass to Hamilton’s portrait and drained it. ‘Roquefort, it is.’
Saturday evening
She’d looked everywhere, been through every drawer in his study, searching for the bank statements. She’d found five empty whisky bottles and thrown them away, plus some pathetic love tokens, presumably from that slut down at the pub though one of them was from Della’s misbegotten niece. No bank statements.
They must be in his briefcase, the briefcase which had not been returned to her as it ought to have been. Should she be worried? No, not really. She’d find it on Monday. Trimmingham was solidly on her side, would never let her down.
She was annoyed that Mr Milk Chocolate had failed to fall in with her plans immediately. Perhaps he needed to be taught a lesson? Hm. Yes. She knew just how to do it. He wasn’t a serious problem, and neither was the pale creature he’d brought along with him. Was he her toy boy? Ha! She’d give him some stick about that on Monday. Neither of them posed any kind of threat, did they?
FOUR
Sunday morning
Bea slept well enough. Surprising, really, as the interview with Mr Cambridge had raised more questions than it had answered. For instance, what on earth did he expect to achieve by arranging for her to have an interview with Lord Murchison? And was it really a good idea to urge Zander to go back to work?
She felt flat. And unexcited by the fact that the sun was shining. Hooray for the sun. Lots of people would welcome its appearance. Personally, she didn’t. Church bells were ringing; people were waking up to the day of rest and turning over in bed, thinking that they could have a nice long lie-in, and . . .
And not bother about the phone ringing. There was no sign of Oliver or Maggie so she would have to answer the phone herself.
‘Mother, where have you been? That young man of yours said you weren’t feeling quite the thing the other night, but you knew it was an important occasion and I do think you might have made an effort to come.’
Ah, her important Member of Parliament son, Max. Now what did he want?
‘Sorry, darling. You know how it is.’
‘You’re not going down with a depression, are you? That sort of thing gets around, and people don’t know how to deal with it. One of Nicole’s friends went into a depression, and she was off work for months. How will you cope at the agency if you’re off work? You’ll have to sell and—’
‘Oh, shut up, Max!’ Had she really spoken so sharply?
Shocked silence at the other end.
She made an effort to keep her voice down and soft. ‘No, Max. I’m perfectly all right. I got overtired, that’s all. Haven’t been sleeping well.’
‘That’s one of the symptoms, isn’t it? Have you seen the doctor?’
‘No, and I don’t need to. Really, Max. I’m touched that you care so much, but I’m going to be all right. It’s just that I haven’t had a holiday for a long time and have been working too hard.’
‘Oh. Oh, well; Nicole and I have been thinking about a holiday, but the airlines won’t take he
r at the moment. Too near her time, they say.’
‘Yes, well. Perhaps you can find somewhere in Britain?’ Nicole was finding the later months of her pregnancy hard going and made sure everyone knew it.
A heavy sigh from Max. ‘You wouldn’t like to come over and sit with Nicole for a bit, would you? She complains that I’m out almost every evening, but she doesn’t want to go out herself because she feels so awful and looks such a sight. And when I try to suggest something, she doesn’t want to know. I really can’t bear it when she cries.’
Bea set her teeth. ‘Perhaps I can give her a ring this afternoon, arrange to see her midweek.’
‘It will have to be in the daytime. She’s not up to anything by supper time.’
That meant eating into her work hours. Oh well. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Bless you.’ Another heavy sigh. He disconnected.
Rearranging her social life for the following week in her mind, Bea prepared to set aside some time for her daughter-in-law. Summer was a busy time in the agency, because people needed replacements for staff going on holiday. If she saw Nicole one afternoon, she’d have to work late that evening to make up for it.
What did she have on next week? She couldn’t think. Ah, she’d promised to go with her infuriating though sometimes helpful first husband Piers to a show at an art gallery one night. Which day? He hadn’t said, had he? His latest painting would no doubt be on show at some fantastic price. Piers was doing very well indeed nowadays, thank you.
Seeing Nicole wasn’t that important, was it? Hm. Perhaps it was. Max had sounded really worried about her. Bea tried to make herself feel sorry for Nicole and failed. Oh dear. Was she turning into a legendary bad mother-in-law? Well, tough. Work was more important, wasn’t it?
Well, actually; not. She sighed. All right, all right. She’d find time for Nicole somehow.
Downstairs she decided against a cooked breakfast and switched the kettle on.
Oliver padded in, yawning. ‘Are we having a full English breakfast today? Maggie’s not up yet.’
Bea clicked her fingers. ‘I had your guru round here last night, Mr Cambridge. He said there was a rave-up at his place. Were you there?’
‘Me, Maggie and a dozen others. Watching a rough cut of a film Chris has been making in Docklands. Weird stuff but brilliant. He was trying out various bits of music for the soundtrack, and we voted on what worked and what didn’t.’
Bea opened her eyes very wide. ‘You never cease to amaze me. I thought it would be all cans of beer and maybe an illicit smoke.’
‘No, no. Serious stuff. Chris never wanted to go to uni but doesn’t really know what he does want to do. He shoots film at weekends, holidays. Mr C says Chris can leave uni if he proves he can make a short film which is accepted by some organization or other, I forget their name, something very Establishment.’
Bea was silent. Oliver had been on track to go to university himself, until he’d found pornography on his father’s laptop and been thrown out of the house. Another whistle-blower who’d got hurt.
Bea had suggested he reapply for another year, but he’d said he wanted to stand on his own two feet. She hoped he wasn’t going to change his mind as she didn’t know what they’d do at the agency without him.
‘Chris is Mr Cambridge’s only son?’
‘Mm. Married late, wife died a couple of years back. Shall I grill some bacon, then?’ Clearly, he really wanted a cooked breakfast. Bea didn’t, particularly, but got out the bacon, anyway. ‘Was Zander one of the crowd last night?’
‘Not his scene. I’m glad he decided not to go back to work. I’m sure we can find him something better.’
‘Mr Cambridge wants him to do so and to report any abuse to the police.’
Oliver poured half a box of cereal into his own large bowl and added milk. ‘Zander won’t want to. I don’t blame him.’
A delicate subject. ‘Have you ever experienced abuse?’
‘Everyone does. It depends how you deal with it. We had a spot of name-calling at school, but it was all fairly good-natured. You just spat out a few names in return. Scumbag. White-face. That sort of thing. I’m part Asian, which makes a difference. Zander’s father was from Africa; Sierra Leone. Africans get more flack than Asians, I think.’ He shovelled cereal into his mouth. He was growing fast and beginning to fill out. He ate as much as Maggie and Bea put together.
She wondered, ‘Does it really make that much of a difference where your people come from?’ She answered her own question. ‘I suppose it does. I suppose I have an automatic reaction, thinking that Chinese and Japanese people are bound to be clever, good at music and maths; that Asian people make good traders; and that Afro-Caribbeans are the best at sport.’
‘You? You’re pretty well colour-blind.’ He chucked his empty bowl and spoon into the sink, from which it would have to be rescued to go into the dishwasher. ‘Now me, if I see a group of black youths hanging around a corner I think drink, drugs and knives – or guns. Which proves, I suppose, that I’m more racist than you.’
Bea laughed, for she knew very well that he treated everyone who came to them for a job with the same scrupulous courtesy.
Dishing up bacon and eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes and a slice of fried bread for him, plus a couple of rashers of bacon for herself, she wondered if the difference between Oliver and Zander was not one of racial background, but of their experience of life.
Looking at Oliver, scoffing food, checking his watch to see what time it was – where was he going that day? – dressed in quality casual wear, she reflected that, despite the trauma of being thrown out of the house and being disowned by his family, he was growing up to be remarkably well balanced. Yet Zander, with a similar middle-class background, wasn’t. But of course you had to factor in what had happened to Zander recently.
Hmm. She sipped coffee, staring out of the window through the sycamore to the spire of the church. Should she go to church today? She might. Hamilton had gone most Sundays, but he’d said once that every person worshipped God in their own way, and that the ritual which suited one person, turned another off. He’d appreciated the beauty of St Mary Abbot’s; he’d often dropped in there during the week to sit in a side chapel to be quiet and pray.
Bea had struggled to do the same, but somehow . . . it just hadn’t worked for her. Her fault, doubtless.
Dear Lord, I’m doggy-paddling through life, trying to keep afloat, but I’m a poor swimmer and land seems out of sight. I know the fault is in me that I don’t listen to you often enough. I couldn’t even settle to read the Bible last night, or the night before. Yet, looking back over what’s been happening, I see – at least, I think I see – that you’ve been pushing me into doing something for Zander. Right against might.
I know I was angry with you because you didn’t help me defend Zander when that terrible woman was attacking him, but then you put that poor creature Kylie in my way, so that I could learn more about that precious pair. That was your doing, wasn’t it, Lord?
So tell me: what do I do next?
Oliver got to his feet to drain the last of the cafetière into his mug, one eye on the clock. ‘I’m going out for the day. All right?’
‘Before you go, will you ask Zander to come in to see me? Today.’
He didn’t like that. ‘What do you want to see him for? It’s all settled, isn’t it?’
‘If you can walk by on the other side of the road from an accident and say it’s nothing to do with you, I can’t.’
‘You want him to . . . do what?’ Oliver was being ultra protective of his friend.
Bea told herself to take this slowly. ‘I want to talk to him, that’s all. I want to discuss what steps might be taken to right the wrongs done to the Trust, and also to him personally.’
Oliver still didn’t like it. Hesitated. Hovered. Frowned into the middle distance. Finally shrugged. ‘All right. It’s your funeral . . . or maybe I should say it’s going to be his?’
&nbs
p; ‘No funerals, by order. I’d like to see him this morning, if he’s not going to church somewhere.’
Oliver looked relieved. ‘Oh, he will be. And then he helps out at some children’s club or other on Sunday afternoons.’
Bea knew when she was up against a blank wall. It was good of Oliver to try to protect Zander, but in the long run was that the best thing for him? No. Toughen up, mate. The world’s a sad old place, but if you cast yourself as a victim, then that’s what you will become.
‘All right. Give me his phone number, and I’ll have a word myself.’
‘I’ll leave it on your desk.’
He wouldn’t, of course. She remembered now that Zander had told her he didn’t attend St Mary Abbot’s church, but went to another one . . . now what was its name? St Philip’s? Yes, that was it. Well, she could always catch up with him there. So she smiled at Oliver, said the weather forecast was good, and watched him depart – without leaving her the phone number.
St Philip’s was probably not much older than St Mary Abbot’s, but it was a completely different type of church. For one thing, it wasn’t a national treasure built by Sir Gilbert Scott. It was a routinely pretty, stone-built Victorian church set in a garden at the end of a long road of individual houses built for the upper-middle classes. No busy traffic junction, no crowding in of expensive-looking shops as there was at St Mary Abbot’s. No crowds. Peace and quiet. You had to pay big money to buy into this part of Kensington; though not, of course, as much as for Bea’s own road, which was early Victorian at its cream stucco and large sash-windowed best.
Bea had decided it was a trifle too far for her to walk to St Philip’s in what promised to be another hot day, so had taken the car. There was space for parking around the church. The garden was a haven, surrounded by shrubs and small trees, interspersed with bedding plants.
She’d intended to catch the mid-morning service but had mistimed her arrival to find it was due to finish in a few minutes’ time. She wandered into the garden. Plenty of wooden seats, some in shade, some not. What a luxury in this built-up part of London!
False Pretences Page 5
