Chris hadn’t moved. He was waiting for her to pull the rabbit out of the hat for him.
‘She has a boyfriend?’
‘Someone called Harry. A Hooray Henry.’ Chris pulled a face. ‘He rubs me up the wrong way. I did ask him. He got a text message from her too, saying she was off to France for a break. He’s . . . Well, he was upset, but says now that he wasn’t serious about her. Got another girl in tow.’
‘Tomi’s beautiful?’
He screwed up his face. ‘Not strictly. Too long a nose. But stunning. I haven’t a single shot of her which makes her look dull. There aren’t many girls with faces like that, you know.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘You’d probably be the same. Some time, when I need an older woman, I’ll see what the camera can do for you.’
‘Thank you, but no thank you.’ She’d been there, done that, and knew such promises were rarely kept. Bea’s first husband, Piers, was a well-known portrait painter. He’d talked about painting her several times, but had never got round to it. ‘Back to Tomi. What do you think has happened to her?’
‘I tried the police, if that’s what you mean. They say she’s old enough to look after herself and if she wants to disappear, she can. I’ve rung round the hospitals – that was my father’s suggestion, by the way. Nothing. Her job’s in jeopardy, of course. They’re furious that she hasn’t been in contact.’
‘She texted her workplace, her flatmate and her boyfriend, but not you. What happened when you tried her phone?’
‘She didn’t pick up. A voice said to leave a message. So I did. Three, maybe four times. She hasn’t got back to me. I’m worried about her.’ He rose to his feet without needing to hold on to the desk or chair.
Oh, to be so young and supple.
‘She’s not my girlfriend, you understand. I only go for blondes. She’s just . . . an itch at the back of my mind.’
‘And you want her back, to start making your next film.’
‘I can get a dozen girls to stand before the camera and go through the motions. None of them have her presence, or patience. Or real talent. But if she doesn’t turn up soon, I might have to start looking around for a substitute.’ He gave her a stark look, allowing her to see his concern. ‘Dad said you’d find her if anyone could. I asked Oliver. He knows her, and he’s worried, too. He’ll be back when term ends, won’t he? He could help you.’
‘Did you look to see if her passport was with her things?’
He flushed. ‘I didn’t think of it. What a fool I am!’
‘I suppose I could see if it’s still at her flat. I can’t promise anything, but if her passport’s gone, then I think you may have to resign yourself to looking for another film star.’
Claire was a natural blonde with feathery curls around a heart-shaped face. She had big, wide-open cornflower blue eyes. Sometimes she wore fake eyelashes with glitter on them, though not when she was working, of course.
She loved her job and was much in demand as a short-term day nanny for families which had struck a difficult patch, such as an unexpected illness. She never stayed at any place after the youngest child was ready to attend nursery.
Despite her small stature she was a tough little person, who earned brownie points by being helpful even outside her regular working day; especially in clearing out medicine cabinets.
Just lately she’d stumbled across a situation so wonderfully promising that she could hardly concentrate on the job in hand.
Steady as she goes! she told herself. No need to hurry. You’ve got nearly ten days to get rid of the rest of them; well, maybe not all of them. It doesn’t pay to be greedy.
Her clients thought she was a sweetie-pie and SO good with baby.
Her boyfriend said she was the cream in his cocoa.
She didn’t think of what she was doing as murder. It was looking out for number one, that’s all.
TWO
Friday evening
Bea saw Chris out of the door, checked that everything in the office area was safely locked up for the night, and sat down to email Oliver.
Oliver dear,
We’re so much looking forward to having you back with us. Let me know asap when I may collect you at the end of term. Maggie will want to come, unless you’ve got so much stuff to bring back that there won’t be room for her in the car.
I’ve had your friend Chris round, bothering the life out of me about a girl’s disappearance. Her name’s Tomi. He says you know her, too? What do you think? Ought he to be worried? He says he asked you about it. Did he? He said at first that he wants me to find her because she’s got his library books, but I think he’s really worried about not having her for his next film.
He also says he’s passed his driving test. Has he, really? I’m amazed.
Let me know about picking you up.
She signed off as ‘Bea’ and hit the ‘send’ button.
Oliver was not her son by birth. Of mixed race, he’d been adopted as a baby by a professional couple, but had never fitted in and had been tossed out into the world when an undersized but brainy eighteen year old. Dragged home to Bea by Maggie, and tutored by a man who ate computers for starters, Oliver had blossomed into a well-balanced young man who’d been the mainstay of Bea’s agency till – a year late – he went up to Oxford. He’d recently taken Bea’s name, discarding the one he’d been given when adopted. Perhaps one day he’d seek out his birth parents; perhaps not. The main thing was that he understood Bea and Maggie loved him and that he could always rely on them, even though Bea was old enough to be his grandmother.
She’d asked him to use her first name, and perhaps some time soon he’d manage it. She shut down her computer and knocked something on to the floor. A DVD, which certainly had not been there before. Had Chris left it there? Ah. Yes. The label said it contained his short film, the one which had so unexpectedly won a prize for an independent production. She dropped it into the waste-paper basket. Then retrieved it with a sigh and put it in the pocket of her trousers.
Should she view it now? No, it was getting late; she was tired and hungry. She rescued the flowers Chris had given her and climbed the stairs to the ground floor of her Georgian house. She checked that the grilles were locked over the windows at the back and front of the big through living room, straightened the portrait of her dear dead husband, which the cleaner always left askew, and drew the floor-length curtains. She found a vase and popped Chris’s bouquet into it, placing it on the coffee table in front of the fireplace.
‘It’s up!’ said Maggie, appearing in the doorway, mobile phone to ear. Meaning supper was up, presumably. Maggie disappeared into the kitchen; tall and gangly, her hair black and spiky this week, her outfit consisted of orange and green layers over jeans and was finished off with enormous moon boots. Maggie was scared of men and dressed to frighten them away.
Maggie was not brilliant at office work, but had a talent for project-managing alterations to houses and flats. She got on with everyone from the highest paid architect to the lowliest of plumbers, provided they didn’t ask her out for a date.
In the kitchen Bea spotted their long-haired black cat sitting fatly on the work surface, waiting for titbits. Maggie half-heartedly swiped at him. He drew back to avoid her hand, then laid himself down again in exactly the same place. Winston. Another orphan who’d homed in on Bea.
Supper was minted lamb chops, mashed potatoes and fresh green beans, followed by a dish of stewed plums with cream. Bea did it justice, while trying not to be irritated by Maggie chatting away on her mobile throughout. Maggie had a number of friends in their mid to late twenties: all in good jobs, all playing the field, and all far from ready to commit themselves to any permanent relationship.
To Bea’s mind, none of them had grown up yet. The one currently on the phone seemed to have got drunk and promised to go out with her brother’s best friend, or maybe it was his uncle. Bea couldn’t work it out.
Maggie came off the phone only to have it ring again, and this time it w
as work; the tiler she’d been using. Apparently, he was making excuses about work not being done to standard, or time, or something. Maggie slipped from girlfriend mode into that of employer. With a sharp edge. Who did he think he was kidding? Didn’t she know him of old? Had he gone to the races instead of working? She forked food into her mouth while giving the man a hard time, only relenting when he promised to work overtime next day. Without charging her for the extra hours.
Finally Maggie killed the call, and before the phone could ring again, Bea said, ‘I know you’re going out to meet your friend but, before you disappear, did you know this girl Tomi that Chris is in a flap about?’
‘Of course. She’s the star of his film. Stunning, in an unusual way. I mean, not one of your anorexic blondes, which is what he usually goes for. Gives one hope he might eventually grow up, if you see what I mean.’
‘She’s disappeared with his library books. He says. What do you think?’
A shrug. ‘It’s not like her, but if she’s found someone more gorgeous than the self-centred and oh-so-boring Harry, then maybe . . . ? Can one blame her?’
‘You’ve met him?’
‘No, but she told me all about him.’
‘She’s also left her flatmate without paying her rent.’
Maggie sucked her forefinger. ‘Mm. Not like her. You don’t really mind my going out tonight, do you? I’ll get up early tomorrow to finish the estimate for the flat in Earls Court. I’ve got all the figures in, bar for the new kitchen cupboard doors, but I doubt if we’ll get the job because the client thinks in pennies instead of pounds.’
‘I trust you for that. Would you have trusted Tomi to pay her share of the rent on time?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She screwed up her face. ‘At least, I suppose there might have been some circumstance that . . . Only, I can’t think what it might be. Her people went back to Nigeria, I think. Both doctors, both earning good salaries there. I seem to remember they wanted her to go back with them, marry a Nigerian, and so on. But she’d have said if that was what she was going to do, wouldn’t she? Worked out her notice and all that. At least have told Harry, or left notes for people. No, you’re right. It doesn’t make sense.’ She looked at her watch; a man’s watch with lots of dials on it. Maggie was running late. She gave a little scream. ‘I must go.’
Once left alone, Bea fished out the telephone number Chris had left her for Tomi’s flatmate and dialled it. ‘Miss Drobny? Have I got the name right? Your number was given me by a friend of Tomi’s, who—’
The phone quacked indignantly. ‘I don’t want to hear about—’
‘I understand she’s gone missing under mysterious circumstances—’
‘Hmph. Is a new boyfriend something to be mysterious about?’ Not pleased, and not British, though the accent was slight.
‘Not like her, though.’
A pause. ‘Well, I thought that, too.’ A middle-European voice. Polish accent? No. Further south. Bosnian, possibly? Not all that young. Decisive.
‘The thing is,’ Bea said, trying to be tactful, ‘that people are worried about her and have brought their troubles to me. Someone always gets dumped on to sort things out, don’t they? Her friends can’t understand her not letting you know she was going away and not paying her rent.’
‘That is true. It is not right.’
‘Not at all what you’d have expected from her. I agree. Her friends have asked me to call you, see if I could help in any way—’
‘Are you going to pay her rent? It is due a week ago. I cannot afford to keep the room vacant, waiting for her to return.’
‘You’ve been to an agency to find someone else?’
‘I put an advert in the paper.’
‘Suppose I ask her friends if they would agree to pay her rent for a couple of weeks. Would that help? I mean, if she really has gone off for a holiday, she can repay them when she gets back.’
‘Very well. You give me a cheque for a month’s rent and I keep her room. I am only this minute back from work and must cook supper. I will expect you in one hour, hour and a half. I am in the basement flat. Understood?’
‘I’ll be there.’ It would be worth paying the rent to have a look at Tomi’s belongings. If her passport had gone and the library books were still there – Chris probably hadn’t looked for them properly – then she’d gone off with a boyfriend. If her passport was still there, and there was no sign of the library books, then . . . Bea decided to think about that later.
She was putting the dirty dishes from supper into the dishwasher when the phone rang. ‘Mother, is that you?’
Who else would it be? It was Max, her self-important Member of Parliament son, who was married to that vacuous blonde, Nicole. The marriage had had its ups and downs, but currently was in an ‘up’ period. Bea hoped.
Unfortunately, Max’s recently produced son and heir was depriving them of sleep and patience. When Bea had suggested that a change of formula might be a good idea, she’d been informed with angry tears that she was completely out of date, had no idea of how to bring up a baby in this day and age, and they would thank her to keep her mouth shut on the subject. Bea was well aware that each generation thought they, and only they, knew the right way to bring up babies, but she found it disturbing that little Pippin did not appear to be putting on weight.
Nicole and Max were completely under the spell of the latest Bringing up Baby guru, who was making a fortune by telling new mothers what to do. In consequence Nicole now lived by the clock, feeding baby when he wanted to sleep, anxiously putting him down to sleep when he wanted to play. And so on. Some babies thrived under this routine. Little Pippin didn’t like it. He didn’t like the formula that replaced mother’s milk, either. Result: one hungry, dissatisfied baby.
Nicole refused to allow Bea even to touch baby because, she said, he needed to bond with his mother, but she found her mother-in-law useful to do all the jobs around the place that baby’s routine prevented her from doing herself. Bea had been over there only that morning to do the shopping and clean the flat while Nicole tried to rest between the short times she allowed herself in the baby’s routine.
To Bea’s suggestion that Nicole should employ a nanny for a couple of months, the girl replied with yet more tears that no, she would never, repeat never, abandon her child to the attentions of a nanny. Besides, Nicole said, it would give entirely the wrong impression to Max’s constituents. A privileged background, said Nicole, cut no ice back in the Midlands.
Now Max was joining in the battle. On Nicole’s side, of course. ‘Mother, I really thought you had more sense than to upset Nicole. What do you know about bringing up babies nowadays? I suppose you thought you were trying to help, but all you’ve managed to do is make Nicole feel really unwell. She was in tears when I got home, and that set Pippin off and—’
Bea knew what she had to say, and said it. ‘I’m so sorry, Max. I do know that what works for one baby doesn’t work for another.’
‘Right. Well, I suppose you thought you were helping. The thing is, we’re missing his toy mouse. Nicole says he had it this morning before you came. Did you tidy it away somewhere?’
Bea hadn’t thought Pippin was particularly attached to the mouse, which was blue and red and hardly a thing of beauty and a joy for ever.
‘Er, yes. I mean, no. I found it in the pocket of my coat when I got back home. I fell over it this morning when I was carting the shopping back up to the flat and must have popped it into my pocket by mistake.’ All that lifting had made her back ache, but Max wouldn’t be interested to hear about that. ‘I’ll drop it back to you tomorrow.’
Bea had advised Nicole to attach all his toys to his recliner so they couldn’t get lost, but Nicole believed in total freedom for her son to throw things around . . . which kept her tied to the baby’s side. Not a good idea, in Bea’s opinion.
‘He won’t go to sleep without it,’ said Max, which might possibly be true. Bea could hear him wailing at that very mo
ment. ‘If you bring it over straight away—’
‘I’ve got an appointment. Can’t you fetch it?’
‘Certainly not. I’m leaving for my constituency within the hour. You know I have a Saturday morning surgery there, and I won’t be back till Sunday evening at the earliest. As for Nicole, she’s exhausted, thanks to you upsetting her.’
‘Has she tried changing his formula?’ asked Bea, greatly daring.
‘What? No, of course not. Here . . . Nicole, you’d better take the phone because I’ve got to go, yes, yes, I must. Yes, I know all that, but you must realize . . . Anyway, mother’s found Mouse.’
Nicole’s voice came on, tearful, complaining. ‘I do realize it’s awkward, and of course he’s got other toys, but he just won’t settle and I’m sure he would if he had Mouse. If you’ve got it, couldn’t you just bring it over? I’ve just got to get some sleep before his ten o’clock feed or I don’t know what I shall do!’
Bea loved her little grandson. One look into his blue eyes, and she’d been his slave. She longed for the day when Nicole would allow her to play with the child, or feed him; or even bathe him. So far Bea was only allowed to help by doing the shopping and cooking and generally keeping the flat tidy, which she did when she had cover for herself at work. But go over there now? Hadn’t she done enough for them for one day?
Nicole sobbed into the phone. ‘It’s not that I don’t love the little rascal, but I’m not as strong as I might be.’ For that, read ‘not as young as I might be’.
‘I’ll be with you in about an hour, maybe hour and a half,’ said Bea, slamming the dishwasher shut. Upon which the doorbell rang. ‘Must go, Nicole. Someone at the door.’
Chris had presented her with a bouquet, but Chris’s father clearly thought that a bottle of bubbly was a better bet. Had he come to badger her into looking for Tomi, too? Bea didn’t appreciate all this pressure. ‘Look, I’m going out in a minute. Driving. So I can’t drink.’
He walked straight past her into the sitting room. ‘This won’t take long. And I’m not driving, so I can drink.’
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