False Money

by Veronica Heley

  The front doorbell pealed. She closed her eyes, pretended not to hear it. Then sighed, pushed herself out of her comfortable chair and went up the stairs to let CJ in.

  ‘Must rush. Here you are. I’ve made a note of the parents’ email address, so that we can contact them as soon as – if – we hear anything. Let me know if you find anything else of interest.’ He thrust a slimline laptop at her and dashed back to his car, which was double-parked.

  Bea considered dropping the laptop on to her stone doorstep, which would hopefully put it out of commission, but knew she couldn’t do that. She was a creature of habit, wasn’t she, trained to obey the Voice of Duty? She would go out for a short walk, and then put in an hour or so on the laptop. She was going out that evening, anyway, so couldn’t give it much time.

  She made the mistake of booting up the borrowed laptop straight away and never got out for her walk.

  It didn’t seem that Tomi had used it much. A few emails to her parents and friends – Bea took a note of their email addresses in a notebook. She couldn’t find the notebook she’d used last night, so started a new one. There was a lot of spam, which Tomi hadn’t bothered to delete; reminders about library books she’d ordered, which were now in and waiting for her to collect them; some query about her subscription to a Health Club; and so on and so forth. Nothing particularly interesting. Bea switched to the ‘Sent’ box.

  The girl’s style had been chatty, friendly and, now and then, ungrammatical. Most of the emails were to friends, with a weekly one to her mother. None to her father. Tomi chatted about how she was getting on at work – nicely – and where she’d been with Harry, the boyfriend who Chris said had now moved on to someone else. She’d been to an art gallery with a different friend – unnamed. Not Harry? – and to some dance or other, very swish. She’d been worried that her old red dress mightn’t have been up to scratch, but it had passed muster. She wondered about buying some more clothes if this whirl of activity went on. Possibly second-hand?

  Health Club. Chris and Oliver belonged to the Health Club down the road, didn’t they? Maggie had had a subscription for a while. Bea wasn’t sure whether or not Maggie still used it, because it was rather posh. Expensive.

  What was Tomi’s salary? There wasn’t anything on the laptop about that. She’d worked for a magazine, hadn’t she? There must have been something in the paperwork at her flat about it, terms and conditions, etcetera.

  Bea made herself a cup of tea before delving into the files which Harry had left on the laptop before handing it over to Tomi. He’d deleted them, but they were still hanging around if you knew where to look. Bea could imagine Harry’s lordly attitude as he handed his old laptop over to Tomi. ‘Play about with this one, if you like. I’ve got a new one.’

  The phone rang. It was Chris, sounding strained. ‘I phoned round all the hospitals again. She’s not there. So where is she?’

  Bea didn’t reply. What was there she could say?

  Chris gave a little cough. ‘Sorry. Think I’m going down with something. Can’t settle to anything. When’s Oliver due back?’

  ‘I’m fetching him on Wednesday.’

  ‘Not till then? I went round to Harry’s just now. Tried to talk to him about Tomi, but we . . . we’ve never really got on. There was a bit of a confrontation, I’m afraid. He’s, well, everything I’m not. Dependable, earning a mint, public school background, upper class right back to the umpteenth generation. Thinks I’m a charlatan.’

  ‘Surely not,’ said Bea, who had sometimes thought along those lines herself. ‘What you mean is, you were tugging Tomi one way, and he wanted her to conform to his background?’

  ‘He wasn’t thinking of marriage. He liked showing her off: black is beautiful, causes heads to turn, my girl has been the star of an art-house film. You know? Plus she worked on a magazine. She ticked all the right boxes as a girl to be seen around with, but she said he never took any notice if she expressed an opinion of her own.’

  ‘You saw different things in her.’

  ‘I liked her.’ Frustration in his voice.

  ‘You think she’s dead, too?’

  Silence. The phone clicked off.

  Bea went back to the computer to continue searching through Harry’s emails. Lots of spam. Sent emails, arranging meetings. Business? Looked like it. There were draft reports in legalese on projects in the Middle East. More reports on a different set of businesses. All work-related. Nothing recent. Nothing personal. No nice chatty letters to friends saying how he’d been getting on with Tomi.

  In-box. A couple of emails from friends, new email addresses, phone numbers, that sort of thing.

  Bea turned the computer off. If there was anything there, it was going to need a better brain than hers to access it.

  The front doorbell rang. There was no one else in the house, so she went up the stairs to answer it. It was Chris, looking gaunt. Normally he wore cheerfulness like a mask. It was interesting to see how worry had hollowed his cheeks, making him look a lot older.

  ‘Suppose Harry killed her?’

  Bea blinked. ‘Come inside. You’re letting the cold in.’

  He stepped inside the front door and let her close it behind him. ‘Look, will you come with me to see him? This morning when we spoke, well, he took a swing at me and I retaliated. I annoy him, you see. Nothing whatever in common. I was angry that he could forget Tomi so quickly. I suppose I overreacted.’

  Bea could imagine it.

  Chris jingled keys, shifting from foot to foot. ‘I might have said, well, I suppose I did say . . . But she, his new girl, she’s the daughter of someone important, and he’s ambitious, aiming to climb the corporate tree, you know what I mean? Though I could have told him that this particular girl’s well beyond his reach, and however much she plays around with a good-looking man, she always goes back to a dim-witted youth with a title. She’s got far too much sense to tie herself down to Harry. If you see what I mean.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, what if Harry thought it would help him with Hermia? Yes, silly name, her parents were fixated about A Midsummer Night’s Dream if you ask me, which of course you didn’t, but . . . Where was I? Oh yes. Suppose Harry thought he had a better chance with Hermia if he got rid of Tomi? Suppose there was a row and he hit her or something? Killed her by mistake? He would panic, of course, and put her body somewhere, I don’t know where. Tipped her in the river, maybe.’

  Ridiculous nonsense. ‘I doubt it, Chris.’

  He screwed up his face. ‘I can’t just do nothing, can I?’

  ‘Have you told your father what you think?’

  A hunched shoulder. ‘He said I was barking mad, but we’re at opposite ends of the spectrum, aren’t we? It’s automatic that he thinks I’m wrong. You’re different. You take your time and think about things. So, will you come with me to talk to Harry?’

  ‘Why should you think that—?’

  ‘You got Miss Drobny eating out of your hand, didn’t you?’

  ‘Well, but—’

  ‘Look, come with me now. Have a word with him, ask him about Tomi. See how he reacts. I trust your judgement. Oliver’s always saying what a good judge of character you are. I promise that if you think Harry’s got nothing to do with Tomi’s disappearance, I’ll not mention it to the police.’

  ‘Police? But we don’t know yet that anything’s happened to her.’

  ‘Don’t we?’ His mouth set in a grim line.

  She hesitated. ‘All right. I’ll get my coat. Where’s my handbag?’

  ‘Are these your car keys?’ He picked them up from the chest in the hall. ‘I’ll drive. I know the way.’

  Bea opened her mouth to tell him she wouldn’t trust him with the keys to a piggy bank, never mind her car . . . Her only experience of being driven by him before had given her a bad case of the shakes, but Oliver said Chris had at long last passed his test. Perhaps he’d learned by now how to drive without giving his passengers a nervous breakdown?

>   But no. She had a better idea. ‘Sorry, Chris, I’m not insured for you to drive. If you insist on this wild goose chase, I will drive and you will tell me where we’re going.’

  He gave in with a bad grace and instructed her to twist and turn through back streets until she wasn’t entirely sure where they were. Somewhere north of the Bayswater Road was the best she could do.

  Ah, a mews. Gentrified. Expensive. As she parked the car, he got out to ring a doorbell beside some closed garage doors. Some of the original mews buildings had been modified, adapting what had originally been intended for use as coach houses into garages, and later on into ground-floor living rooms. Some – not many – had retained the space to garage their owners’ cars. As this one had.

  Chris indicated a low-slung sports car parked nearby. ‘Hermia’s.’

  ‘Won’t it be awkward, asking him about Tomi, if Hermia’s there?’

  He shrugged. The door opened.

  ‘What the—! Get the—!’A tall man in a dressing gown tried to close the door, till Chris put his foot in it.

  This was Harry, presumably. A cut-glass accent, curly blonde-to-red hair, bony face. Late twenties? Bea could imagine him looking down his nose from under a Guards helmet. Officer type, definitely.

  Harry made a second attempt to close the door. Chris leaned on it, smiling slightly, but not in a friendly way. ‘We need a word.’

  ‘And who might you be?’ Harry was tall enough to look down on Bea.

  ‘My name is Mrs Abbot and I’m also trying to find Tomi. Chris thinks you might be able to help.’

  ‘Who is it, Harry?’ A voice from above. Roedean? Also crystal clear, but warm. Not a soprano, but an alto.

  ‘Chris and some woman looking for Tomi.’

  ‘Oh?’ Denim-clad legs appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Well, don’t let the cold in. Come on up.’

  A tiny hall, carpeted stairs leading to the first floor, Spy cartoons on the walls. Harry led them up the stairs and into a small living-room overlooking the mews. Furnishings by a good department store; John Lewis, perhaps? The walls had been painted a warm apricot; there were matching low leather chairs and settee, a large TV on the wall, and Scandinavian rugs on a pale carpet. Newspapers had been strewn about the place; a mobile phone was at the ready. Glass coffee table, of course. Coffee mugs and a cafetière. The surface of the coffee table could have done with some attention. Nothing shows dust like a glass table top.

  The girl was something else. No, not a girl; mid twenties, perhaps. Tallish, but stocky rather than slim. Minimum make-up, dark hair cut in a severe bob. She reminded Bea of Miss Drobny; perhaps it was her air of knowing exactly what she was doing? Not pretty, but striking. Her nose a trifle large? A Jewish background?

  She was wearing an expensive heavy sweater in mottled grey and white, denims, and beautifully cut brown boots. A soft fawn leather jacket had been tossed over a chair nearby. Money.

  Harry picked up a mug of coffee, without offering any to his guests, and threw himself into a chair. ‘So what now? Has the silly girl turned up at last?’

  Chris ground his teeth, but replied in an even tone, ‘No. We’re all worried about her. So why aren’t you?’

  Harry shrugged, sending Hermia a glance which invited her to be amused by this charade. ‘So what? And did you have to bring your mother with you?’

  This stung, as it was meant to do. If Harry knew anything about Chris, he’d have known his mother had died young.

  Chris held on to his temper. ‘I asked Mrs Abbot to come because she’s been through Tomi’s things and found her passport, which proves she didn’t go to France. Don’t be afraid; I won’t hit you again.’

  An insult that also hit home. The mug of coffee Harry was holding jerked, and he swore, shaking hot liquid off his hand.

  Had Chris – who was not all that tall, or heavy – actually managed to land a blow on Harry? Was that a reddish graze on Harry’s chin? Bea flicked a glance at the girl, who looked amused.

  Harry reddened. ‘Diddums, then. Has his ickle bunny girl deserted him?’

  Chris moved his shoulders within his jacket, but kept his temper. ‘Tomi was special, but never my girlfriend. You ought to know that. You went out with her for what – three months? As soon as the film won a prize.’

  Harry contrived a laugh, inviting Hermia to share his amusement. ‘A five-minute sensation. Yes, she was an amusing little totty to have around for a while, but no one could be serious about her. Or you. I hear you dropped out of college to make your little video, using money you’d borrowed from your father. Not much of a future in that, is there?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Hermia, frowning. More to herself than anyone else. ‘So you’re that Chris, are you?’

  Chris wasn’t looking at her, but concentrating on Harry. ‘Look, Tomi’s missing. I know she texted you to say she was taking off to France with a friend, but she couldn’t have gone because her passport’s still here, and she’s not picking up messages left on her mobile.’

  ‘Gone back to her roots, I suppose. Like a rabbit to its burrow. Sudan, Nigeria, Sierra Leone? Take your pick.’

  Chris turned away with a gesture of frustration.

  Bea took up the questioning. ‘Could you tell us when you last saw Tomi and what she was wearing at the time?’

  ‘Really, I’m not responsible for the girl. Now if that’s all, perhaps you’d leave as we have plans for the rest of the day which don’t include you. Either of you.’

  Hermia picked up her jacket and retrieved a small diary from a pocket. ‘Two weeks last Saturday I was at a party with some friends. Harry came in, moaning that Tomi had gone off with someone else. Does that help?’

  Harry scowled. ‘She stood me up. After telling me she was going shopping for something to wear to the party, too.’

  ‘That helps,’ said Chris, ignoring Harry. ‘I saw her on the Saturday morning. We went to the library together and took some books out, some of which she was carrying for me. That was the last I saw of her. So between Saturday morning and Saturday evening she went missing, and no one’s seen her since.’

  ‘She got a better offer, I suppose,’ said Harry, yawning. ‘Now if you don’t mind—’

  ‘A better offer than you were likely to make to her?’ said Chris. Then stopped, for Hermia had made a slight but definite movement, frowning, communicating . . . what?

  Bea looked from one intent face to the other. She could feel the air in the room becoming supercharged with . . . sex? No, not sex. Though perhaps there was sex in it.

  She tried to work it out. There was a recognition on Hermia’s part that she was interested in Chris, and that he had suddenly realized it. Despite the age gap, something was definitely going on between them.

  But Chris only goes out with blonde cuties!

  Hermia was not a blonde and had never been a cutie, but she had brains and integrity and a cool intelligence, which would make her a better partner than any number of blonde cuties. There was money in her background, too; something which Harry was said to appreciate, but which probably wouldn’t weigh with Chris at all.

  Bea’s brain slid on and on. If Chris and Hermia got it together, would they not argue? Yes, probably. Would she tire of him if he failed to fulfil his early promise of bright young film-maker? Yes, probably. But what if what she was feeling for him now developed into a deep, true love? She’d mother him through his bad times, admire the persistence with which he’d overcome so many problems to produce his first film and appreciate his warm and loving nature. She’d discount his charm, of course, and probably fall in love with his father and . . . would there be enough left, if he failed in his career, to keep them married?

  Marriage? What was she thinking of? Chris was nineteen years old, living off his father and the kudos of a one-shot video, while Hermia came from old moneyed stock. Bea could imagine what her family would say if she invited Chris home as a prospective husband. Besides, didn’t she have some pea-brained aristocrat in tow? Someone
with a title?

  Bea shook her head to clear it. She was imagining things.

  Hermia ran her hands up through her hair, fluffing it out into a softer style. She picked up her jacket. ‘Well, Harry; I can see you’re hardly dressed for our planned run in the country, so I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘What? But—’

  ‘See you around.’ She turned to Chris. ‘Can I give you a lift somewhere?’

  ‘I came with Mrs Abbot.’ He stood back to let her pass down the stairs ahead of him. ‘I don’t have a car of my own yet.’ Was he setting out his own stall?

  Hermia opened the door to let them out into the mews. ‘How can I help you look for Tomi? I saw your film. I was impressed. She’s a lovely girl.’

  Hermia had used the present tense. Bea noted it. So did Chris. He said, ‘I’m so afraid something’s happened to her. I tried the hospitals, and my father’s tried the police. Nobody’s reported a body that could be hers.’

  ‘Your father’s Cecil Cambridge, the computer guru, isn’t he? My father knows him. Have you got any PR shots of Tomi that we can use to jog people’s memory?’

  ‘Back at home, yes.’

  ‘I’ll give you a lift, shall I?’

  ‘But – Mrs Abbot . . . ?’

  ‘I’ll take myself off, then,’ said Bea. ‘Let me know how you get on.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  Eye drawn to eye, like a sleep walker Chris got into Hermia’s expensive car and was driven away. Kidnapping? Well, no. They both knew what they were doing. Probably.

  Bea got into her own car and flicked on her mobile.

  ‘CJ? Can you spare a minute? No, nothing earth-shattering – well, it is in a way. You know a girl called Hermia? Or her father?’

  ‘Both. Yes.’

  ‘She’s just annexed Chris. Popped him into her car and driven off. With intent.’

  ‘What do you mean, intent?’

  ‘Well, on his side, I should say he recognizes an intelligence equal to his own, an earth-mother figure, and is eager to have sex with an adult.’