False Money

by Veronica Heley

  Bea sighed. ‘I give up. Let’s have supper, shall we?’

  He switched off lights, held the door open for her to precede him. ‘I envy him, really. I’ve stood on the sidelines, cold stone sober, watching him walk into a party and become the focus of the room. I’ve tried to join in, but I can’t. I’m a regular party-pooper, they say.’ He smiled, disguising discomfort. ‘Same applies at uni. Luckily there are other people there who prefer jazz and conversation to getting drunk. Some of us are really into modern jazz, all curved bits and wobbly pieces. Not everyone likes it, but I’m learning to appreciate it. I promise not to play it too loud.’

  ‘My dear boy! That’s wonderful. This house is so well built that if you shut your bedroom door, I won’t hear it. Or if I do . . . Well, I can always buy some earplugs, can’t I?’

  ‘No, no.’ He reddened. ‘I can mute it. So . . . shall I put the pie in the oven now?’

  Monday evening

  ‘Nick, is that you? Claire here. I’m just on my way home, but the Mini’s playing up again and, as you know, my beloved’s not around. I wonder, didn’t you say you knew some garage that would look at a car and not charge an arm and a leg?’

  ‘What? Who? Oh, Claire. Caught me at a bad moment, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You sound as if you’re going down with something. Not the dreaded flu?’

  ‘No, no. It’s – the thing is, you won’t have heard, but it’s quite a shock. Harry’s dead. I had to phone him at work about something, only to hear he hadn’t come in. They phoned me back later. He pulled the chain, committed suicide. Yesterday.’

  ‘What? You mean Tomi’s boyfriend, Harry?’

  ‘Who else? Anyway, he’d given her the chuck, hadn’t he, and the rumour is – not that I believe it, mind you—’

  ‘I’m shocked. Oh, oh!’ Stifled tears. Beautifully done. Effective. ‘Oh, I’d better not try to drive when I’m crying. Oh dear, I nearly crashed into the car in front.’

  ‘Claire, are you there? Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose . . . Oh, that’s terrible. Can I park here? I don’t think I’m safe to drive. Oh, I’d better leave the car here, take a taxi home. Oh, if only my beloved were back. I can’t bear the thought of being alone, all by myself, when such terrible things are happening. You men are so strong, can cope with anything, but oh dear, whatever shall I do?’

  ‘I’m having a stiff drink, I can tell you.’

  ‘I don’t like going to the pub by myself. Oh dear, oh dear! And yet, tonight of all nights, I wouldn’t mind—’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I think . . . Just round the corner from you. Yes, that’s right. In the next road. Lucky to find a parking place at this time of night. Oh, I’m all of a tremble, silly me.’

  ‘Why don’t you pop round, then? We can drown our sorrows together.’

  A sniff. Blow nose. ‘Ten minutes? You are so good to me, Nick!’

  Turn off engine. Check make-up. Locate bottle of good stuff in handbag. Practise a mournful look, put on the Little Me persona, damp down the excitement. Nick should be a doddle. His bitterly fought divorce was going to make the perfect excuse for suicide.

  EIGHT

  Monday evening

  Bea wasn’t particularly surprised to find that there would be a full house for supper. Maggie and Zander, CJ and his son Chris, herself and Oliver, plus Winston the cat. Winston had his own dish of cat food on the floor but liked human food as well.

  Six made a tight fit around the kitchen worktop, but they managed. Whoever was nursing Winston prevented him from actually eating off their plates, and he managed to beg enough titbits to satisfy himself.

  Bea did suggest, half-heartedly, that they use the proper dining table in the big room, but was shouted down. Perhaps CJ might have been more comfortable on a proper chair instead of a stool but, as he’d invited himself, it didn’t matter, did it?

  ‘Tell me,’ said Bea to Zander as he was stacking the dishwasher, ‘I’m trying to work out how people with different interests get to know one another. For instance, how did you come to know Tomi?’

  ‘I was in the pub up the road with Oliver when Tomi came in with Harry. While Harry got their drinks, Oliver introduced me. I’d seen her before somewhere, but couldn’t place her for a while, and she felt the same. Eventually we worked out that we’d both been at a church International Evening. She’d been on the tea urn, and I was stewarding. We didn’t attend the same church, but it was another link.’

  Bea tried to work out distances. ‘The pub up the road is some way off Harry’s place and even further away from Tomi’s.’

  ‘It’s fashionable,’ said Oliver. ‘Harry liked to be at the right place at the right time. He knew some of the others who go there. Brian, who lives up the road—’

  Chris jumped in. ‘That’s who I was talking to, when I last saw Tomi. I wonder if we can get hold of him, ask him if he remembers who she went over the road to see?’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ said Bea. ‘How did Brian know Harry?’

  Chris shrugged. Zander looked puzzled. ‘I don’t know Brian, do I?’

  Maggie clattered knives and forks into the dishwasher. ‘I think I know Brian by sight. How do you know him, Chris?’

  ‘Through the Health Club. Father owns a race horse. You remember him, Oliver?’

  ‘Vaguely. But—’

  The landline rang, and Maggie swooped on it. ‘I’m expecting one or two people to ring back about Tomi. I said after supper, and so . . . Yes, it’s me. Hi. You got my message?’

  CJ collected Bea and Oliver with a flick of his eyebrow. He was the only person Bea knew who could dominate when he chose and be invisible at other times. She led them out of the kitchen and into the big living room. He shut the door and gestured that they should take a seat. Even in Bea’s own house, he acted as if he were the host. ‘A word. Not to go outside these four walls. Can I trust you?’

  Bea and Oliver nodded. Of those left behind in the kitchen, Chris had a leaky tongue, and Maggie could be indiscreet at times. Probably only Zander could be trusted not to betray a confidence.

  CJ steepled his fingers, looked over them. ‘The autopsy on Tomilola. She was drugged with barbiturates – probably sleeping pills – then given an injection of heroin. Either would have killed her.’

  The room was quiet.

  A murmur from Oliver. ‘Murder?’

  CJ nodded.

  ‘Rape?’ from Bea.

  CJ shook his head. ‘No interference. Fully clothed as per your report of what she was wearing when last seen. No sign of a struggle. Her handbag was beside her, also the library books, which are – I’m sorry to say – rather the worse for wear since the weather has been inclement. Her credit cards were in her bag, but no cash or notes.’

  Oliver said, ‘If it was a robbery gone wrong, why did the murderer leave the credit cards?’

  ‘The police believe that Harry took the cash because it was untraceable, and its absence would make it look as if Tomi’s death were a robbery gone wrong. They think he might not have known how to sell the credit cards, which is why he left them behind.’

  ‘Humph,’ said Bea.

  CJ ignored that. ‘Tell me; what would you expect to find in a young woman’s handbag nowadays?’

  Oliver shrugged, but Bea concentrated. ‘House keys, credit cards, wallet, travel pass, purse for change. Make-up, hairbrush, mirror, etcetera. MP3 player of some kind? Tissues, letters, bills – paid and unpaid. Perhaps a book of puzzles, or an electronic game? Pens, pencils. Something to read? Mobile phone, of course.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Address book and diary; something small enough to carry around with her. There were large ones among her belongings at the flat, but I think she’d carry smaller ones around with her for every day.’

  Oliver agreed. ‘She had both.’

  CJ frowned. ‘There was no small diary or address book. Everything else you’ve thought of is there; except for the mobile ph
one, of course.’

  ‘Which the murderer took to use for himself? Or herself? Whichever. He or she used Tomi’s phone in the first place to make people think the girl had gone off to France, then to lure Chris out to Fulmer late on Saturday or early Sunday. And we know she was dead by then.’

  CJ looked at the clock. ‘My bedtime. We’ll keep in touch, right?’

  Oliver wasn’t ready to let go of the subject yet. ‘What about Harry?’

  ‘Autopsy tomorrow.’

  Bea said, ‘Did they find his mobile phone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve heard,’ said Oliver, ‘that murderers sometimes collect trophies from their victims. I wonder if that’s what’s happening here. I mean, a murderer might well take Tomi’s phone to use for themselves, but why take Harry’s as well?’

  CJ said, ‘The two deaths may not be connected.’

  A vague thought connecting mobile phones and diaries swam around at the back of Bea’s mind, but she couldn’t make sense of it. Trying and failing to pin it down, she saw CJ out of the house. Oliver went to join the others in the kitchen, from which came the sound of laughter and voices. Someone was talking on the phone? Someone – Zander? – tapping on a keyboard. Entering the new data?

  Bea decided not to interfere. She returned to the sitting room and went to sit at the table at the far end. She settled herself, leaning back to look up at the portrait of Hamilton, her second and much loved husband, which had been painted by Piers, who had been her first. Piers had swum back into her life of late, but Hamilton had gone on ahead, and she missed him terribly.

  Hamilton had been accustomed to sit at that table to play patience with real cards. He claimed it freed his mind to operate on the back burner, while his conscious mind concentrated on moving cards around.

  Bea tried doing the same thing. She got out a double pack of patience cards and dealt them out, eight cards across and eight down. Bottom cards face up. Turn over the rest of the pack in threes. Aces up and build on them.

  She couldn’t get the game out. Finally she put the cards away and looked up at the paint and canvas which was all she had left of her second husband, apart from memories. So many happy years. Hard work. Honesty. Laughter. Wisdom.

  The eyes in the picture still seemed to be telling her that he loved her and valued her above rubies. She knew that if she got up and moved around the room, the eyes would follow her.

  Hamilton had managed Max much better than she had. Max had looked up to him as to a father. Piers had never been much of a father, had he? Although, to give him his due, he did care for his son nowadays.

  Nicole. Oh dear. What to do or say? Had Bea damaged even the fragile relationship they’d achieved over the years? The problem was – and here Bea had to talk severely to herself – that she had never really liked the girl. That afternoon, for instance, Bea had wanted to take Nicole by her bony shoulders and shake her till she rattled. Or slap her. Either. Or both.

  Bea grinned. Of course, she wouldn’t really do it. But oh, how she’d like to.

  She scolded herself, half-heartedly. Bad girl, slap on wrist! Perhaps she’d better put in some praying time about Nicole.

  Her mind wandered, and she found herself thinking of the girl Tomi, dying in a country lane. The method of her death spoke of premeditation. First stupefy with drugs, and then polish off with an injection.

  Some medical knowledge there?

  Bea turned her head to the door. The youngsters were leaving the house for the pub to celebrate Chris’s birthday. She loved Oliver and Maggie dearly, but it was good to be alone for once. She let the silence fold around her and was soothed.

  When she found herself yawning, she went up to bed and read for a while. Winston the cat followed her up and settled down to give himself a good wash and brush up. She stroked him absent-mindedly, and he gave her hand a good licking, too . . . which made her laugh.

  She might doze off, but wouldn’t be able to fall into a deep sleep until Oliver and Maggie were safely back home again. She heard them come in and checked the time on her bedside clock. Half eleven. Not bad.

  She continued to read for a while, half hearing some music, but not being able to place it. Maggie always hooked herself up to her player when she wanted to listen to music. Could it be Oliver playing his radio? Ah, he’d mentioned he was into some modern jazz. Gracious me. But the sound was not too obtrusive. Quite sweet, in its own way. She didn’t find it objectionable.

  She put her book on the bedside table and in doing so knocked her bible to the floor. Bother. Various postcards acting as bookmarks had fallen out. More bother. She scooped them up and then, holding her bible, stared into space.

  Her darling husband had had several bibles and had used them all at different times, but this had always been his favourite so it was the one Bea read every night – well, most nights, anyway. During his last illness he’d given it to her, writing in it a note ‘with all my love’.

  So, what had happened to Tomi’s bible? When Bea had been looking through Tomi’s belongings she’d picked up the bible, noted that there were various pieces of paper and cards stuck in it, and laid it aside to inspect later. According to Miss Drobny, Tomi’s parents weren’t strong Christians and might not want the bible. Probably the police had taken it, along with everything else belonging to the girl.

  Only, if Tomi were anything like Bea, she might well have popped the odd note or even a photograph into her bible. It might be worth finding out.

  Tuesday morning

  The sky was bright blue, the sun shone, and the snow had melted away, leaving roads to turn a sluggish grey and then to dry. It was supposed to be an ordinary working day, but it didn’t feel ‘ordinary’. Maggie and Oliver told Bea what they were planning to do that morning, and Bea failed to register a word they said. She’d woken up knowing exactly what she’d done with Tomi’s bible. She’d been half sitting and half crouching on the floor over Tomi’s boxes, had wanted to have another look at the bible and so had put it behind her somewhere. On the floor? On a chair? In the hurry and bustle that had occurred after that, she’d forgotten the bible. It might still be there.

  Of course, there was no reason to suppose it was important, but Bea felt driven to pursue the matter. Leaving Maggie and Oliver to squabble over the last piece of toast, she rummaged around in her bag to find Miss Drobny’s telephone number. With any luck the woman hadn’t left for work yet.

  ‘Mrs Abbot here. I was hoping to catch you before you went off to work. Can you spare a moment? I’ve been wondering how you’ve been getting on. Is your new flatmate working out all right?’

  ‘We manage. She will only stay for a while, I think. For the present, it’s OK.’

  ‘I understand. Have the police been?’

  ‘Yes. It is a shock to hear Tomi is dead, though I think she must be. I was afraid I would be sick when I see her body, but it was not hard. Poor girl! So sad. The police look through her things, take all the paperwork and say her people can have the rest. My new flatmate is not happy to have all Tomi’s things still here. Also Tomi’s parents telephoned me when they heard from the police. They want everything kept for them.’

  ‘So what will you do?’

  ‘I am putting all her things in storage and keeping the bill for the parents. They come to London soon, and then it will be finished, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Now I remember your saying that Tomi’s parents were not committed Christians. Do you think they will want her bible, because a friend of hers would really appreciate it? I seem to remember having left it somewhere in your sitting room, where it must be frightfully in the way.’

  ‘I found it when you had gone. Do you want it still?’

  ‘I would love to have it. Do you think I might collect it some time?’

  ‘When do you come? I am off to work in a second, but I can leave it outside the front door if you like.’

  ‘That would be very kind of you. I’ll be over in half an hour.’


  She clicked off her phone, only to discover Oliver was giving her an old-fashioned look.

  She said, ‘Sentimental of me, I know, but I didn’t like to think of her bible thrown out in the rubbish. What did you say you were going to do today?’

  ‘If it wasn’t rape – and it wasn’t; if it wasn’t robbery – and clearly it wasn’t a straightforward robbery – then why on earth was she killed? I can’t get my head round it.’

  ‘Neither can I. We’re missing something. I’m going to collect her bible now. What will you do?’

  ‘Look at what was on her computer.’

  ‘All old stuff.’

  ‘Did you connect it to the mains, see what new emails might have come in recently?’

  Had she done that? She couldn’t remember. ‘Best of luck, Oliver.’

  ‘Well, before I touch it, I’m going to finish correlating the information Maggie and Zander have collected and give the police the names of the people we believe may have been pushing drugs. That’s one positive thing we can do.’

  ‘It’s a mess, isn’t it?’ Bea put on her big boots, collected keys, handbag and warmest coat, and left to collect Tomi’s bible.

  The house in which Tomi had lived was quiet and dark today. Presumably all the tenants had gone out to work by now. The steps down to Miss Drobny’s flat were dripping with melted ice, but Bea managed them without taking a tumble. A used envelope containing Tomi’s bible had been propped against the front door. Good.

  Bea hefted the envelope in her hand. If she returned home, she’d find the agency rooms buzzing with queries and she’d be drawn into dealing with them as soon as she opened the door.

  Also, there might be another call for help from Max; she dreaded hearing his voice nowadays. Don’t think about poor little Pippin! She wrenched her thoughts away and took a deep breath. She couldn’t help Pippin at the moment, and she needed to inspect the bible in peace and quiet.

  She drove some way back towards home, found a parking space, and took her prize into a pleasant corner café. The windows had steamed up, but the Gaggia machine was working, the tables were clean and the place was almost empty.