False Pretences

by Veronica Heley

  CJ was amused. ‘I fear he got that from me. Well, he’ll have the file on the personnel, then. Let me know how it goes?’

  ‘I’ll show you out.’

  With one hand on the front door, he stopped. ‘I’m inclined to back your instincts about the woman. Can you ensure someone’s with you all the time from now on? Someone to guard your back, I mean.’

  ‘To provide an alibi in case I’m accused of arson, theft or murder?’

  ‘Precisely. And I’ll see who I can get to do the same for me. Not that I think we’ll need it.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  They were both lying. Bea set her back to the door once he’d gone and wondered if the day had turned colder. Perhaps she should find a jacket to wear?

  She went downstairs to see how everyone was getting on and found Miss Brook and Cynthia had progressed to a good working relationship, each recognizing the professionalism of the other.

  There were some matters which only Bea could deal with, and she sat down at her desk and did her best to concentrate on finding the right person for the job, no square pegs to go in round holes. And looked at the morning’s post . . . and yesterday’s post, and tried to provide answers without descending into gibberish.

  Maggie rang through just the once, to ask if there was any news. There wasn’t. Maggie said she’d probably be late that evening, as the electrician couldn’t get back to her till five or maybe six, and did Bea realize there was nothing to eat for supper? Bea realized.

  She sent a large food order through online, thinking that at least it would arrive tomorrow, and she’d worry about supper that night when the time came.

  Lunchtime. She made a big tureen of soup out of lentils and some scraps of bacon, chicken stock and milk, and took hot mugs of it down to everyone, together with a platter piled high with chunks of bread and some cubes of mature Cheddar cheese. Miss Brook and Cynthia accepted the soup with gracious thanks, but declined the bread and cheese, as they were sharing a pack of sandwiches which Miss Brook had had the forethought to buy on her way in.

  When she went into Oliver’s office, Bea wasn’t particularly surprised to find young Chris Cambridge sitting at his friend’s elbow, as they processed one image of a pretty girl after another. She handed them each a mug of soup and put the bread and cheese down between them. ‘Found anything yet?’

  ‘So far, no. But I’ve printed off the personnel files for you.’ Oliver indicated a slender file of papers on his desk. ‘He’s used a password, of course, on each of his folders. I’m hoping he’s used the same for everything. But he might have used something else as well. Anything. Any word that attracted his attention. I’ve tried the steganography program on three folders so far, all soft porn, using his usual password, “Kylie”, and haven’t found anything.’ He sipped, put the mug down. ‘Too hot.’ He stretched, arms above his head, and yawned. ‘I’m bushed.’

  Chris reached for bread and cheese, never taking his eyes from the screen. In a high, false voice, he said, ‘They say you soon get tired of looking at pictures of pretty girls. They lie!’

  Was he trying to imitate Bea’s voice? She was shocked, annoyed and only slightly amused.

  Oliver laughed. Chris laughed. Bea rolled her eyes and told herself it wouldn’t help matters if she cracked their heads together, which she seriously wanted to do.

  Chris munched away, leaned back in his chair. With his mouth full, he said, ‘There must be some way of telling which files he visited with this programme.’

  Oliver rubbed his eyes. ‘I’d need the hard drive to work that out. And even then I might not be able to tell you.’

  Bea said, ‘I know I’m an ignoramus in these matters, but do you think he’d have found it easy to use the program on a single picture in a folder that maybe contained twenty such images? Wouldn’t he be more likely to use it on single jpegs on the desktop?’

  Both Oliver and Chris looked at her, sat up straight, and refocused on the screen. Oliver shoved bread and cheese into his mouth with one hand while controlling his mouse with the other. ‘There are five. I hadn’t started on them yet. Let’s see . . .’

  He brought up an image of a naked girl posing on a chaise longue, a mirror on the wall reflecting her curves. ‘She’s called “Rhoda the Riotous”.’

  Chris peered at the screen. ‘I preferred “Billie the Bountiful”.’

  Both picked up their mugs in one hand and sipped.

  ‘It requires another password,’ said Oliver. ‘It’s not Kylie. Ideas, anyone?’

  Bea warned them, ‘If you spill soup on that keyboard, you’re sunk. Why don’t you try “Rhoda”?’

  Oliver was peeved. ‘That’s just what I was going to do.’

  Computer geeks hate it when a layman points out the obvious.

  ‘There!’ said Oliver and Chris together.

  The doorbell rang upstairs.

  Neither Chris nor Oliver were going to be torn from the computer to answer, so up went Bea, sighing to herself.

  It was her daughter-in-law, fresh from the hairdressers, her blonde hair in a mass of curls around her face. Curls! They didn’t suit her. Nicole was burdened with yet more shopping bags from expensive boutiques, which was going to make Max swear. She was also crying.

  ‘Oh, my dear!’ said Bea, drawing Nicole inside. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

  Nicole was sobbing so hard she couldn’t speak. Bea stifled the uncharitable thought that her daughter-in-law could only just have started to cry, for her eyes were not at all red.

  ‘Max said . . . Oh, how could he be so deceitful?’

  ‘That’s not like Max.’

  ‘Oh, it is. You’ve no idea!’

  Bea had a very good idea, actually. She drew Nicole into the sitting room and sat her down. ‘Would you like a box of tissues? Some coffee?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Nicole tossed her head, making her ringlets dance. ‘Oh, I’m so unhappy!’ She applied a tissue of her own to one eye, and then the other.

  ‘Are you, my dear? Can you tell me why?’

  ‘It was all so wonderful when Max said that Piers wanted to paint me, and I told everyone and went off to the beauty salon and had my nails done and their new stylist devised this hairstyle for me, and then . . . and then I rang my sister and told her the news and she said . . . she said . . . Oh, I can’t bear it!’

  ‘Lettice?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Lettice. She said Max had only said that Piers was going to paint me to keep me sweet, and that of course he wouldn’t be bothered with me and . . . Oh, I’m so unhappy. So I went and bought this dress which I don’t think I like at all really, and it was just around the corner from you, and I thought . . . I thought at least you’d sympathize with me.’

  ‘Well, I do. Of course. But Nicole, Piers really is going to paint you.’

  ‘No, why should he? Lettice’s right. He never paints beautiful women, only famous people. I mean, he can charge whatever he likes. Everyone wants to be painted by Piers. He’s the uttermost.’

  ‘So he is. But he came over the other night to ask if I’d persuade you to sit for him. I thought you might be interested, so I told Max to ask you.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .!’ She caressed her bump. ‘He doesn’t paint young women, and I’m sure he wouldn’t want to paint someone who’s as pregnant as I am.’

  ‘Granted, he hasn’t painted beautiful women before, but he’s seen something in you, pregnant as you are, that appeals to him. Something to do with showing ripeness and beauty in pregnancy. I think he’s also interested in the fact that you aren’t a brainless young schoolgirl, but a mature woman. He says he can make quite a statement with that.’

  Nicole was hooked. She smiled. ‘Ripeness and beauty in pregnancy. One in the eye for my little sister.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Bea wondered if Nicole’s strongest emotion was dislike of her sister, or love for Max. Possibly it was a tie between the two? ‘So you see, Lettice wasn’t speaking the truth. I expect she’s green with
envy.’

  ‘I expect she is.’ Nicole scrabbled in her handbag for a mirror and inspected her make-up. ‘I don’t look too bad, do I? I had been wondering about Botox, but . . .’

  ‘Please don’t. Piers specially mentioned his dislike of Botox. I think he prefers the natural look. But of course, you will have to discuss all that with him. Will you be able to sit for him soon? I think he rather wants to do it straight away. You’re not being sick now, are you?’

  ‘No, no. Or not often, anyway.’ She scrabbled in her shopping bags and produced a pale blue, filmy drift of chiffon. ‘Do you think this would be suitable?’

  Bea put her head on one side. ‘It might well be. Why don’t you ring him? Ask him for an appointment to visit you and make the final arrangements.’

  Nicole went to stand in front of the fireplace, looking up into the mirror. ‘I’m having second thoughts about these curls, if he wants the natural look. What do you think?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask him that. Can you straighten the curls, or reproduce them at will? He might want to see you both ways before he decides.’

  Nicole heaved a great sigh of relief, then peered into the mirror. ‘Is that a spot coming?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Bea. ‘Remember, he doesn’t paint what he doesn’t want to see.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. “Ripeness and beauty.” I really like that. So Max was telling the truth, after all.’

  ‘I think he’s trying to rid himself of Lettice for good. But she does tend to cling, doesn’t she? A sign of insecurity? But now you feel well enough to accompany Max on his official engagements, she’ll really have no excuse to hang around him, will she?’

  ‘You’re right there.’ Nicole smiled at herself in the mirror. Then returned to business. ‘I’m glad I caught you in. Max said you’ve been in a spot of bother. He worries so about you. I hope it wasn’t anything serious?’

  Bea crossed her fingers. ‘Not really.’ Only murder, arson and theft. Only fraud and prison.

  ‘Well, I suppose I must be going. I haven’t got my big diary with me, and I’ll need that to block out the times Piers will want me to sit for him, so I’ll ring him from home. And I won’t even bother to ring Lettice back. Let her stew!’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Bea, helping Nicole to gather her shopping together and seeing her to the front door. ‘Take care, now.’

  A passing taxi whisked Nicole away, and Bea turned back into the house, to meet Oliver coming up the stairs with some papers in his hand.

  ‘The personnel files you wanted. And here’s what I found hidden in the picture of Rhoda the Riotous. It’s a copy of Honoria’s birth certificate, though why he should need to hide that, I don’t know.’

  Bea took it from him, and held it up to the light. Bridget Honour, born October l959 – which made her fifty this year. Mother, Bridget Honour Mulligan, shop assistant. Father, the Earl of . . . ah. Yes.

  ‘She’s illegitimate,’ said Oliver, who had probably also been born out of wedlock. ‘Though I can’t see it matters nowadays.’

  ‘It matters enormously to her,’ said Bea, ‘and explains why everyone tries not to titter when she claims to be Lady Honoria. She is the daughter of an earl, but as he wasn’t married to her mother, she has no right to claim the title. I agree with you, Oliver, that it’s what a person is inside that counts, but not everyone is as secure in themselves as you are. I imagine Honoria has let the fact that she’s not legitimate fester inside her. I am almost, though not quite, sorry for her.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s disappointing. I thought we’d find something incriminating.’

  ‘It is incriminating. She’d go a long way to prevent her illegitimacy being made common knowledge. Go on looking. If he’s hidden this, he may well have hidden other things.’

  ‘If I can keep awake.’ Oliver disappeared down the stairs, passing Chris on the way up. Chris was holding a collection of empty mugs and plates. ‘Where shall I put these?’

  She waved him towards the kitchen, her mind on the personnel files Oliver had found for her. ‘CJ wants me to look up the office manager who was there before Zander. Didn’t someone say she left under a cloud, towing a schoolgirl niece behind her?’

  Chris located the dishwasher and loaded the dirty plates and mugs into it.

  Bea was surprised into a laugh. ‘Forgive me. How nice to meet someone house-trained. I’m afraid Oliver isn’t.’

  Chris grinned. ‘Dad said the daily woman has enough to do without clearing up after me, so I had to learn pretty quickly. Oliver’s different, though. He doesn’t see why he should do any housework when he’s got more important things to think about.’

  Bea was both shocked and annoyed. ‘And you haven’t?’

  ‘Ah, well. That’s the question, isn’t it? Do I give a toss about going to uni? No, I don’t. I even suggested to Oliver one day that he turned up there instead of me.’

  ‘Your father would have a fit.’

  ‘Mm. And Oliver didn’t want to do my subject, anyway.’ A quick glance to check how she’d take his next words. ‘You will let him go to uni one day though, won’t you?’

  She felt as if all the breath had been driven out of her body. Of course she’d suggested Oliver should go. And he’d refused. She hadn’t tried very hard to change his mind, though, and she felt guilty about that. ‘I have urged him to apply again. Really I have.’

  ‘He thinks you’d be lost at the agency without him.’

  ‘We’d manage. Of course we would.’

  He sighed. ‘It’s a weird old world. There’s me not giving a hoot about going, and him dying to go but thinking he owes you too much to leave you.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Bea, as firmly as she could. ‘Anyway, I thought you’d an agreement with your father about making films.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ He was listless, now. ‘I’m not that interested. It’s just something I thought of to rile him. It’s not hard to think up something to film, and the girls all think I’m something special when I say I want to make films. I’m not really committed to it, if you see what I mean. Truth is, I’m not sure what I want to do in life. Just get through it, I suppose.’

  She wanted to say that if he hadn’t had an indulgent father and a moneyed background, he would have had to settle down to earning a living by now, but she refrained. She turned back to the personnel records. ‘Ah, here she is. Della Lawrence. Address and telephone number. I’ll give her a bell, find out why she wanted to see Zander so badly the other day.’

  Chris had located Winston, or Winston had located him. Arms overflowing with black fur, Chris said, ‘Do you know, I think I’m beginning to get bored?’

  Bea didn’t know what to say, so dialled Della’s number. ‘Is that Mrs Lawrence? My name’s Abbot, Bea Abbot. You won’t know me, but I’m a friend of Zander’s.’

  ‘Who?’ A hoarse, low voice. A sixty-a-day smoker’s voice.

  ‘Zander. Alexander. The man who took over from you when you left the Trust. I believe you phoned him a couple of nights ago—’

  ‘What? Who is that? What is going on?’

  Bea backtracked. ‘I have got the right number, haven’t I? You are the Mrs Della Lawrence who worked for—?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. But I never expected to hear from them again, and I certainly didn’t ring Zander. Why should I?’

  ‘Mrs Lawrence, I am equally confused. Zander was rung up by someone who said they were you, asking him to visit you that evening. He agreed, but then something came up and he had to ring back to apologize and make another appointment. Only, you were out.’

  ‘I got a message on the answerphone, apologizing, that’s right. Couldn’t think why. I hadn’t rung him, so why did he say I had?’

  Bea rubbed her forehead. ‘Why, indeed. Mrs Lawrence, something rather strange appears to be going on here. Could you spare me a few minutes this evening if I came out to see you?’

  ‘Bringing Zander?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid . . . No, that won’
t be possible. I’m acting for him, though. Would you mind?’

  Bea could imagine the shrug down the telephone line. ‘I suppose. I’ve only just got in, as it happens. Need to rustle something up for supper. Half seven do you? Do you know where I live?’

  ‘Thank you, yes. I have the address.’

  ‘Parking’s difficult around here. Get in where you can.’

  Bea put the phone down and reached for the A to Z.

  ‘Can I drive you?’ asked Chris. ‘I’m totally at a loose end, and I’ve got a driving licence, just. At least, I will have after I take my test again next month. If I go home I’ll only get in my father’s hair because he’ll want me to work on an essay or make myself useful around the house or something.’

  ‘You are quite mad,’ said Bea, laughing.

  Thursday, early evening

  Honoria looked up the address in her A to Z. It wasn’t far away, tucked into suburbia near a park. Should she go there tonight, or leave it for a couple of days? Or forget about it altogether?

  No, she couldn’t forget. It made Honoria mad to think how Della had schemed to introduce her little tart of a niece into the office. Della knew exactly what sort of young girl appealed to Denzil, didn’t she? Sit on his knee, stroke his cheek, let him kiss and fondle her, lead him on to think she’d marry him. It was the talk of marriage which had frightened Denzil into confessing to Honoria.

  No, the slut deserved to die. So how should it be done this time? The gun? Perhaps not in such a built-up area. Might alarm the neighbours.

  The hammer, then. Yes; why not? Della wouldn’t be expecting trouble. It would be best to change in the loo again. Her overalls had come out nice and clean, and she’d bought a pack of thin rubber gloves to wear. Her shoes had been splashed with blood last time, and she’d have to clean them. She’d considered throwing them away, but they were good shoes, had cost a lot, and comfortable, stylish shoes were hard to find. Perhaps she’d throw them away after this next one?

  No, better wait till she’d finished off the lot.

  She decided to cook a frozen meal for herself in the microwave and then get moving.