‘Brian will be at work, won’t he?’
‘Yes, but if Chris can find someone who lives there, they may know which flat is Brian’s, or even where he works.’
Bea said, ‘There must be a hundred flats in those blocks, and they’re all six storeys high, aren’t they? Would any one person know anyone else, even if they used the same staircase or lift?’
‘I know that, but Chris needs to try everything. You understand?’
‘Wouldn’t it be easier to track him down through the Health Club? He’s a member, and so are you and Chris.’
Oliver struck his forehead. ‘I’m not using my head, am I? Sorry. Yes, of course it would be easier. I’ll see if I can catch up with him, stop him wasting time. We can go down to the Health Club together, make up some story about needing to contact Brian urgently. They’re not supposed to give out addresses, but – we’ll think of something.’
CJ got to his feet. ‘Just remember that the case is closed in the eyes of the Law.’
‘Is that justice?’ Oliver tried to smile.
‘You may not think it is, but it is the law.’
Bea pushed her hair back, and then swept her fringe across her forehead. ‘We’ll feel better when Tomi’s been buried, no doubt. Meantime, it’s back to work for me.’
‘And for me,’ said CJ, making a soundless exit.
Wednesday evening
The front doorbell rang, and in came Chris and Oliver, pushing a protesting man in his mid thirties before them. After a tiring day, Bea was not amused to see them.
Chris turned on the charm. ‘I know, I know, Mrs Abbot. You’ve had an awful day with cleaners pretending they can cook, and butlers downing the port instead of decanting it. You’ve had society hostesses crying on your shoulder because they’ve no staff to run a charity event for six hundred, and your feet are killing you. But this –’ he indicated his captive – ‘is Brian.’
Bea had to laugh. ‘How do you do, Brian. What can I do for you?’
‘It’s not for you, it’s for Tomi,’ said Oliver, steering them all into the kitchen. ‘Will supper go around?’
‘No, it won’t,’ said Maggie, pointing a spatula at them. Maggie was frying something and in no mood to admit intruders. ‘Out of my kitchen, this minute.’
Chris changed direction and pushed Brian ahead of them into the sitting room. Bea laughed, shrugged and followed.
‘I’m sorry, Brian. When these two take the bit between their teeth . . .’
‘If I could help, I would.’ Brian had a brawny physique, but perhaps not too many brains. He was dressed in a brown suit under a camel-haired overcoat. Tidy, but probably not a city type. He might, perhaps, work for an estate agent? What was it that Chris had said about him? Health Club. Yes, but there was something else, too. Ah. His father owned a share in a racehorse.
Chris pushed Brian into a chair, saying, ‘You may think you don’t know anything, but you do. After all, you must be the last person who saw Tomi alive.’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t know any Tomi and—’
Chris poked Brian’s shoulder. ‘You were talking to me in the street. I’d just come out of the library, remember? You came up the road from the High Street on your way back home. Now the girl I was with—’
‘I don’t know where she went.’
Chris turned to Bea. ‘You see how he is. We can’t get any sense out of him, so we thought you could have a go before we turn him over to the cops.’
‘The police? Why? I haven’t done anything.’ He was not afraid, but he was angry and bewildered.
Bea sat down beside Brian and did her best to soothe him. ‘I know you haven’t done anything wrong. These two clowns know it, too. They’ve gone way over the top. Admit it, boys,’ she said to them. ‘You’ve behaved very badly. Fancy dragging your friend in here, and yelling at him—’
‘We didn’t yell, exactly.’
Bea ignored them, to pat Brian’s hand. His hand was warm. No gloves. A macho man? Or trying to be? ‘I’m so sorry. Would you like a sherry?’
Brian softened visibly. ‘Well, I must say . . . Perhaps a small . . . ? I couldn’t think what was going on. They practically kidnapped me outside my own front door.’
Bea handed him a glass of sherry and indicated to the boys that they should make themselves scarce. ‘We’re almost neighbours, then. You know Oliver and Chris from the Health Club, I gather? I’m afraid I don’t take any exercise at all. Isn’t that awful?’
Brian preened himself. ‘Oh well. You probably did when you were younger.’
Bea restrained herself from slapping him and treated him to a wide-eyed look of admiration. Which he accepted. He drank his sherry and almost smiled. Looking around, he observed, ‘Quite a nice gaff, isn’t it?’
‘Sure is,’ said Bea, holding on to her smile. ‘I must apologize again for the boys’ behaviour. Their friend was a tragic loss. You are a man of the world –’ was she overdoing it? Probably, but he was enjoying the flattery – ‘and can understand how upsetting it is to lose someone you love.’
‘Of course, of course.’ He sipped sherry, allowed himself to relax, let his overcoat slide off his shoulders. ‘It was just, being attacked like that . . .’
Bea shook her head, commiserating. ‘Dreadful. Quite frightening, in fact.’
‘Oh, well. I wasn’t frightened.’
‘Of course not. But they shouldn’t have acted so high-handedly.’
‘It wasn’t even as if I could tell them anything.’
‘Some more sherry? Yes? I quite understand. She was not one of your circle of friends.’
‘That’s it. Seen her around, of course. Seen the film, rather good in its way. Amateur, of course, but quite promising, I’d have said.’
‘A striking looking girl.’
He nodded. ‘Graceful, too. Perhaps a trifle on the skinny side. I like them, you know, a bit more . . .’ He waggled his eyebrows.
Bea set her teeth. Of course he did. ‘There she was, helping her friend out, carrying this great pile of books for him out of the library—’
‘Is that what he said? No, no. A couple of books only. She tried to put them into her bag, one of those huge bags girls carry about with them nowadays, you know? But they were too big. The books, I mean.’
‘The blue bag?’
A frown. ‘No, green. Or perhaps it was brown. I was wearing my new dark glasses. Could have been blue, I suppose, but I thought it was green.’
‘The sun was in your eyes. Of course.’
‘No, I was facing north. She came out of the library with Chris. I know Chris, of course. Thought he might introduce me, as a matter of fact, but he didn’t seem to want to. He was facing the sun so he moved round a bit, and the girl said something about seeing someone she knew. She waved to him and off she went.’
‘Straight into the traffic? Oh dear.’
A gentle laugh. ‘I didn’t hear any grinding of brakes or shouts. No bumps. She wasn’t run over or anything. No, no. She must have got to the other side of the road without causing an accident. Someone said she died of a drug overdose.’
‘Oh, you know what “they” are. She was murdered, I’m sorry to say. The police think they’ve found the person who did it.’
‘That’s all right, then.’ He put down his empty glass, shrugged himself back into his overcoat, and stood up. ‘I suppose she got in with the wrong crowd. A sad story, but that sort of thing can happen to young girls who come over here, not knowing the score. And now—’
‘You must be going. Of course.’
‘If you can keep those two clowns from attacking me again?’
‘I promise. And if at any time anything occurs to you . . . ?’
‘I’ll be in touch. Excellent sherry.’
Bea held on to her smile till she’d got him out of the front door, and then closed her eyes, went rigid and screamed. Silently.
Chris and Oliver watched her from the kitchen doorway, eyes rounded.
‘Mrs Abbot, you’re brilliant!’ said Chris.
Oliver grinned. ‘You’d have made a wonderful prosecuting counsel.’
‘No, I wouldn’t. We didn’t learn anything.’
Chris sighed. ‘We learned he didn’t know anything.’ He slumped against the wall. ‘I did so hope he’d seen something. Now what do we do?’
‘Supper’s up,’ said Maggie. ‘For three. Chris, go home.’
‘Chris, before you go,’ said Bea. ‘Did Tomi take a phone call while you were in the library?’
He put on his most angelic expression. ‘The public are requested not to use their mobile phones in the library.’ It was odds on he’d been told off for doing just that himself.
Bea almost laughed. ‘Well, did she get a call while you were in the pub earlier?’
‘Um, yes. Now you come to mention it, she did. She didn’t say who it was from, and I didn’t ask. Is it important?’
‘It might have been the killer making an appointment to pick her up. Otherwise, how would he have known where to find her?’
‘Ah. Makes sense. I’ll tell my father, shall I?’
Maggie shrieked at him. ‘Chris, go home!’
Chris went.
After supper Bea told herself that it was all wrong that she was at odds with her son and daughter-in-law. Perhaps she herself really was out of date and didn’t know the best way to bring up a baby. She tried scolding herself.
What do you think you’re playing at, upsetting Nicole like this? Is it worth it? Particularly since you’re not getting your point across. Wouldn’t it be better to apologize and eat humble pie, and even crawl, in order to maintain good relations?
She lifted the phone off the hook, hesitated, and put it back again. She strode about the room. She faced her husband’s portrait and asked him, ‘Well, what would you do?’
He seemed to smile back at her. He seemed to be saying that she knew very well what she ought to do, and if it meant apologizing for doing something which she didn’t feel sorry about, then she’d better just get on with it.
She had shut the curtains against the night – a nasty, wet, sleety night. The central heating was keeping the house at a pleasant temperature. The side lamps cast a warm glow over the old furniture. Everything within was as it should be – except for her relationship with her son and his wife – and the baby.
Dear Lord, give me patience? Or wisdom? Well, actually, both. I’m troubled in mind and spirit. What would You have done?
Mm. You’d calm and heal everyone in sight. Well, I’m definitely in the market for some peace of mind. Also for the right words to say.
I’m worried about Pippin. It’s all very well for me to rant and rave at Nicole and Max, but whether I’m in the right or the wrong isn’t all that important. Pippin is. I’m so afraid he’s going to . . . No, that’s ridiculous. He’s not thriving as he might, but I’m sure Nicole’s doctor will eventually tell them that a change of formula might . . .
No, I’m not at all sure, am I? In fact, I think their guru is a charlatan who ought to be dragged through the streets on a hurdle to be hanged, drawn and quartered at the Tower of London. Or pilloried in the media. Or something.
All right. I know we’re not supposed to judge. I’ll leave him to you to deal with. So am I to stand by and let Pippin fade away?
No, I can’t do that. I know I’m an old busybody, poking my nose in where it’s not supposed to go, but . . . Pippin is dying before my eyes. No, not dying! I didn’t mean that. Please, dear God, I didn’t mean that.
Please. Help me?
She lifted the phone and pressed buttons. Max answered. ‘Oh, it’s you, Mother. What do you want now? I’ve a very important meeting on tonight, and I ought to be on my way this very minute.’
‘I just wanted to know—’ In the very meekest of tones.
‘Haven’t you done enough damage? Nicole’s so upset she’s had to take a sleeping pill, which means I’ve had to look after my son.’
‘Won’t you allow me to help?’
‘We’ve asked you to help, but when you come here you make more trouble than you’re worth.’
‘I am trying.’
‘Very. Yes.’ He put the phone down.
Bea put the phone down and stared into a future cut off from contact with her family. Her throat ached. Perhaps she was going down with something.
Wednesday evening
Claire listened, and sighed when he sighed – oh dear, how awful! – another of his close friends had died! But there, he still had her, didn’t he? She knew how to turn the conversation, how to make him laugh and how to distract him. Just like handling a baby, really.
He took her out to his favourite restaurant. Expensive, of course. He’d always been generous. Then, at long last, he proposed. Would she consider . . . ? Of course she would. She cried tears of thankfulness. He called for champagne to celebrate.
He would introduce her to what remained of his family – a toffee-nosed lot who probably wouldn’t be pleased at his choice, but would have to come round to it since he’d been playing the field for a long time – so long, in fact, that there’d been rumours he might be gay and so would never produce an heir. He rang his mother there and then to break the good news and arranged to take Claire down to his home in the country that weekend.
He wanted to know about her family; she’d anticipated this and said that tragically she hadn’t anyone, since her parents passed away. Untrue, but she wasn’t having him find out about the father she’d never known and her mother’s various boyfriends. And especially not about the one who’d made her pregnant at fifteen, which had led to a botched abortion and her inability to conceive again.
She diverted him by telling him about her new job. The agency had rung her only that afternoon to ask if she could take on another family. The name of the client rang a bell. A hollow-sounding alarm bell. A Mrs Abbot, who’d been going round asking questions about Tomi. That needed looking into, so Claire had gone to see the woman that afternoon and had agreed terms.
A good address. A prestigious background. They were in trouble, not doing too well, looking after their first baby. A bouncing boy – except that he wasn’t bouncing at the moment. Probably needed his formula changing.
Well, she was the right person for that, wasn’t she? And she’d be perfectly placed to take any further action – if required.
Five down and five to go. Would it be too risky to dispose of one more? She damped down the excitement. Perhaps. She’d give it some thought. There was someone on that list whom she detested. Would it be a good idea to get rid of her? Or would that be taking one risk too many?
TEN
Thursday evening
CJ arrived just as Bea and Maggie were clearing up after supper the following day. Oliver was on the phone, planning to go out with Zander for a jazz session. Maggie said she might join them or not. She wasn’t sure.
‘A word?’ CJ managed to cut Bea out and take her to the sitting room.
‘News?’
‘Can you spare an hour to visit someone with me? I’ve traced the telephone number Tomi wrote on the back of her agreement. The phone belonged to a man who lost it some months ago, he’s not sure where. He thinks he may have left it in a taxi. No wonder you got no reply.
‘“Leo’s” real name’s Duncan Wylde. He works for a big firm of accountants and has been out of the country for a while, financing and refinancing various businesses that are in trouble. He only got back yesterday, and he picked up the message I’d left on his landline this morning. He phoned me back to say that the agreement we found couldn’t possibly have anything to do with his friends’ tragic deaths. When I pressed him, he said it was a fun thing a group of them had decided to do for charity. I asked for details. He said he couldn’t give them without receiving permission from the rest of the group. I asked him to get permission. He rang me back an hour ago to say he’d be willing to talk to me about it this evening. I need a witness.’
Bea sought
for her handbag. ‘Your car or mine?’
Duncan Wylde lived in a large first floor flat in South Kensington. Built of red brick, the five-storey terraces boasted tiny balconies in front of tall windows and cavernous porticoes to each doorway. The buildings formed three sides of a square around an iron-railed enclosure which called itself a garden and which probably looked at its prettiest now, with snow capping the trees and shrubs within. Pricey. Exclusive.
Duncan was also pricey. He had the fresh-scrubbed look of a schoolboy under male pattern high-forehead baldness. His hair was taffy coloured and well cut. His skin was clear of acne, his eyes a washed-out blue. He was just above medium height and well enough built, but a tenor rather than a bass. He was dressed to City standards and wore a gold signet ring on the little finger of his left hand. His shoes were highly polished, ditto his teeth.
CJ introduced Bea, explaining how she’d tried the number given for Leo, in her search for Tomi.
‘Tomi. Ah. May I take your coats?’ Duncan’s taste in decor leaned to the antique rather than the modern, which was something of a surprise. Maybe the antiques had been inherited and were too valuable to dispose of? The doors of a lacquered Chinese cabinet stood open to reveal a number of bottles and an array of cut glass. ‘May I offer you a drink? No? You won’t mind if I do?’
He gestured them to comfortable, overstuffed chairs and poured himself a large whisky. Gulped down about half. Set the tumbler down on a coaster so as not to mark the patina of a mahogany table. Seated himself. Avoided their eyes.
There was good background heating, but also a fake gas-fire in the Adam-style fireplace. The lighting was courtesy of huge side lamps with brocaded and tasselled shades. Everything that wasn’t ancient had probably been purchased from Harrods.
CJ and Bea waited, patiently. The carpet was old and had lost most of its colour, but there was a silky Chinese rug before the fireplace.
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