False Report

by Veronica Heley

  ‘Of course.’ Bea flushed, because she couldn’t be entirely sure that he was. And he’d dallied with an extramarital blonde or two in the past, hadn’t he?

  CJ didn’t labour the point, but summoned a taxi with a flick of his fingers. An admirable trait in a man, to be able to summon a taxi just like that.

  Bea said, ‘Whatever happened to justice?’

  A saintly tone. ‘My reputation depends upon my being an impartial witness.’

  Through her teeth, she said, ‘Understood. But I’m not bound by your need to be whiter than white.’

  Except, perhaps, that if the agency were targeted by the press, she might well lose most, if not all, of her clients.

  She got into the cab beside him. ‘So now you’ve pointed out that there may be hidden dangers in the situation, where does that leave me? You drew me into this affair, remember. Did you foresee this conversation, when you invited me to have tea with you at the Ritz? One moment you ask me to look after the little man, and in the next you warn me off.’

  A condescending smile. ‘It is always a pleasure to take an intelligent woman out to dine. I trust you enjoyed the evening and that it is only the forerunner of many more to come.’

  Four letter words hovered on the tip of her tongue, but she restrained herself from spitting them out. With an effort.

  When they drew up outside her house, she said, ‘Thank you for the evening. Most enjoyable. If I turn up any information which is relevant to Jeremy’s case, do I tell you about it? Or would you prefer me to contact someone else?’

  ‘A Detective Inspector Durrell is in charge of the case. He gave me his card, which you can have. Yes, here it is. He seems competent enough.’ A smile, a wave. He held the door open for her to leave the cab, got back in and told the driver to carry on.

  Bea almost stamped her foot. But desisted. Her sandals were too fragile for rough treatment.

  Saturday morning

  Bea overslept. Maggie had disappeared by the time Bea got downstairs, but had left a note for her. ‘Winston’s been fed. Back for lunch, with luck. Oliver rang, sends his love.’

  Good. Winston was acting as if he hadn’t been fed for a fortnight, so Bea gave him some scraps of the bacon she was frying for breakfast. Unlike some cats, he preferred human food.

  A soft footfall. Bea jumped. It was Jeremy Waite, barefoot, hair all over the place, still half asleep. ‘Breakfast?’

  She fed him, asked what he intended to do with himself that day. He didn’t reply. She shrugged, gave up on him. ‘If you go out, take a front door key with you.’ She showed him where the spare hung in a cupboard by the back door. He nodded, though she wasn’t sure he’d understood what she’d said. Well, Maggie would be back at lunchtime, and so would she.

  She went down to the agency rooms. It was Saturday, and only two girls were on this morning. One was Anna, the girl who’d retrieved Maggie’s paperwork from her bin. Both girls smiled and nodded at Bea as she passed through to her office, collecting the mail as she went. Before she went into her own room, she paused to look into Maggie’s office. Hm. Just as she’d expected; everything had been cleared off the desk, and Maggie’s papers had been neatly placed into a large cardboard box. Maggie was being moved out.

  Frowning, Bea went through into her own office, sorting the post out as she went. Bills, mostly. She switched on her own computer. Was asked for the password. Yesterday’s didn’t work; surprise! Bea got through to Anna on the internal phone and was relayed the new password. Now how had Ianthe got the password changed from last night? Had she instructed Anna or the other girl to change it early this morning?

  Bea wished Oliver were due home. He’d know how to disentangle this business of Ianthe’s changing of the password every five minutes.

  She dealt with the mail with one eye on the clock. Piers had asked her to be at his studio at ten, so she hadn’t much time to deal with agency affairs.

  She was tempted to shut the computer down for the day, but after considering the problem of the passwords, left it running on a screen saver.

  She fluffed up her hair, checked that her short-sleeved blouse and skirt looked presentable, and flagged down a taxi. It wasn’t worth taking the car round to Piers’, as there was no possibility of parking there. The taxi was held up in traffic and, as she toiled up the stairs to Piers’ place, she realized she was going to be a few minutes late.

  ‘Come!’ Piers was at work already. This time he was putting the finishing touches to the background of the gimlet-eyed woman’s portrait, the one he’d planned to work on the previous afternoon.

  There was another man in the room; a youngish, fattish, hair-receding business type, trying to look comfortable in casual clothes, whereas Bea thought he’d only look right in a three-piece suit. An accountant? Someone in the banking system?

  ‘Come in, Bea. You know where the coffee is. I’ve actually remembered to get some milk in. Meet “Basil”, whose real name I am forbidden to give you.’

  ‘Mummy said it wouldn’t be necessary.’ Indeed, he bore a distinct resemblance to the iron maiden in the portrait, though somewhat watered down. Son? A man in his mid-thirties who still called his mother ‘Mummy’?

  ‘Basil’ shook her hand. His was slightly damp. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Abbot. Mummy thought about what Piers said overnight, about your husband having a similar experience to poor Daddy’s, and she decided that I should give you the facts without mentioning any names. Mummy is sympathy itself for you in your loss, but you must promise me never, ever, to reveal, well, anything, because we don’t want the paparazzi . . . You understand? And of course we would deny, if . . . Absolutely.’

  Bea treated him to a reassuring smile. ‘Absolutely.’ So Bea’s husband was supposed to have had a problem with another young girl? Which husband would that have been? Hamilton, or Piers? Or some fictional creature thought up by Piers? She shot a glance at Piers, who was looking amused.

  Bea made coffee for herself and ‘Basil’, and fixed an enquiring, sympathetic expression on her face.

  It wasn’t that warm a day, but ‘Basil’ patted his forehead with a clean, folded handkerchief. ‘I can’t really see any advantage in disclosing . . . And indeed, this is all supposition on Mummy’s part, you understand? I personally don’t agree at all with her conclusions, and there is absolutely no proof. But Mummy . . . She was distraught when it happened. We had to get the doctor in for her. But now . . . Well, everything’s worked out brilliantly, because she’s a wonder, she really is, and the business has taken a leap forward under her direction. Daddy had always said she would have taken to it like a duck to water if she’d stirred herself. But then, she never had to bother her head with it while he was alive, did she?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Piers, managing to keep a grave look on his face. ‘A pillar of industry, your mother. Going to the top of the honours list, I wouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that.’ But he obviously hoped for it, oh yes. ‘It’s true she has risen above what might easily have been, well, a total disaster in terms of . . . nearly three thousand employees, you know? It was such a shock! Her losing all that weight as she did in the months after it happened must have helped her physically, and I do try to make allowances when she . . .’

  ‘Flips?’ suggested Piers.

  Basil stared. ‘No, no. Of course not. Mummy never loses her temper. When she misunderstands, if that’s the right word . . . No, when she imagines the worst about a totally innocent friendship which Daddy had with an unfortunate girl who was just like a daughter to him. I’m an only child, you understand? No sister, no brother. Mummy takes against people sometimes, and there’s no arguing with her, although anyone else could see that Angie was the last person to . . .

  ‘Daddy knocked her off her bike, you know, not seeing her as he drove out on to the road. So of course he was worried about her. Who wouldn’t be? And she was so sweet, and wouldn’t take anything from him at first even to get her bike rep
aired, and she was off work for weeks with her wrist. But she left her address, so naturally he went round there a couple of times—’

  Naturally. For ‘Angie’, read ‘Josie’?

  ‘But there was absolutely nothing in it. He swore there wasn’t, and I believed him. Mummy says now that he had some sort of mid-life crisis. She says he fancied Angie; well, who wouldn’t? Pretty little thing, all dark curls and . . . don’t get me wrong. I only caught a glimpse of her that once when I had to drop a note round to her to say Daddy couldn’t make it, he was supposed to be taking her to the circus or something, that’s how innocent it all was, though you could say it was unwise, but—’

  ‘Where did you take the note?’ Bea was interested.

  ‘A back street house, Hammersmith Way. First on the left past St Peter’s church – or was it St Matthew’s? One or the other. Mid terrace. I could take you straight there, but she’s not there now. No, no. It was a mid-life crisis. But when the money went missing from that old account that Mummy had almost forgotten about till she got the annual statement, and Daddy couldn’t account for it, because he wasn’t thinking straight, his sciatica playing up something chronic, and in so much pain . . . Well, it wasn’t surprising that he got his pills muddled up, was it?’

  Piers shook his head in sympathy. ‘A shocking, unforeseeable accident.’

  Basil looked relieved to find Piers so understanding. ‘A genuine mistake, an overdose. Mummy was desolated, but she’s recovered very well, very well indeed. In fact, everyone says she looks twenty years younger.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘Now, have you quite finished? I promised I’d take the portrait down to her at the house in the country this afternoon, as she wants to show it to some friends. I asked the chauffeur to bring the car round about now.’

  Bea said, ‘Did you see Angie, to tell her about your father dying?’

  ‘I went there, yes. But she’d moved.’

  Basil left, carrying his mother’s portrait with him. Bea watched from above as he loaded it carefully into a chauffeur-driven car below. She made a note of the licence number, just in case.

  Piers joined her at the window, to hand over a slip of paper. ‘Daddy and Mummy’s name and address. In an idle moment yesterday I asked her if she’d ever heard of anyone being caught by a pretty young thing, and her expression told it all. She wasn’t prepared to talk then; said she’d think it over. She rang me back later to say her son would give me any details I needed if it would help you to overcome your grief at your husband’s death.’

  ‘I don’t know whether I’m appalled or amused at your taking my name in vain.’

  ‘It worked, didn’t it? In my opinion she’s still spitting tacks about Daddy’s affair with young Angie.’

  ‘You agree with me that Angie set him up? The trap was sprung. Blackmail was demanded, so he fiddled the books to pay her off. Mummy found out, and he took an overdose.’

  ‘Angie might not be your Josie.’

  ‘Agreed. “Basil” was keen on her too, wasn’t he? I wonder if it would be possible to track down her address?’

  ‘If it wasn’t a “front”.’

  ‘She had to live somewhere. Had to meet her sugar daddy somewhere. Mummy wouldn’t have taken kindly to his meeting Angie at their house – or at the workplace.’

  Although . . . Bea frowned. ‘Basil’s’ Angie might well not be Jeremy’s Josie.

  Piers said, ‘“Basil” will deny everything, remember. If the police were interested, perhaps they could track the place down, but as she’s no longer there I don’t see the point of our trying to find it. Try these other leads instead. I don’t know that either of them has been the victim of a Badger Game, but they’re both rumoured to have had affairs on the side.’ He handed her two more slips of paper.

  ‘Sir Thomas, aiming for the House of Lords. I did his portrait a couple of years back. A man with a face like a squeezed turnip, made his millions in the City and got out just before the boom went bust. He hinted he enjoyed a bit on the side but reckoned it was worth it, put it down to expenses. It kept him young, or so he said. Married into the aristocracy and enjoys the high life. The only thing is that if he’d got involved with your Angie or Josie, he’d have paid up with a smile.’

  ‘The trick being for the Badgers not to ask for more than their victims can afford to pay?’

  ‘Probably. The other man who might or might not be of interest is one Sir Charles, a big brute of a man, smokes cigars. He’s been an unsuccessful Tory candidate at two of the last couple of by-elections and proposes to stand again as soon as there’s another opening. A generous donor to the party. Ask Max. He might have come across him.’

  ‘He boasted to you about having a bit on the side?’

  ‘No, he’s not sat for me, but . . .’ Piers rubbed his ear. ‘Bea, I’m not sure I want you tangling with this man, because it’s not supposed to be safe to cross him. I’ve seen him around, but never spoken to him. The thing is, I was painting a politician of a different persuasion recently, who said he’d been up against Sir Charles in a by-election and that there’d been allegations of nasty tricks . . . on both sides, I shouldn’t wonder. My sitter had wondered about using an item of scandal he’d heard about Sir Charles, but eventually decided it wasn’t worth it.

  ‘Apparently Sir Charles believes that women enjoy being “roughed up”. He boasts of saving a “juicy little bit” from a mugger, who’d been appropriately grateful afterwards . . . until her pimp had tried to get some money out of him, whereupon Sir Charles had beaten him up so badly he’d ended in hospital. Also there’d been some talk of a cab driver who’d tried to overcharge Sir Charles; he’d ended up in hospital, too.’

  ‘You think he might have been another of Josie’s victims?’

  ‘Hardly a victim. In a way you can’t blame him as his wife is an anorexic clothes horse who’s got a stranglehold on him, since she’s the daughter of a big mover and shaker at Central Office.’

  Bea was restless. ‘Supposition, hearsay and gossip. Did your informant beat him in the polls?’

  ‘Yes, but I doubt if he’d talk to you about Sir Charles. That’s it. You asked me to gather some gossip for you, and I have.’

  ‘I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Something which might help Jeremy, I suppose. Apparently, the police still fancy him for Josie’s murder, think he paid someone to do the job. Most unlikely. Somehow or other I need to get the police off his back, without involving CJ. No, I don’t think you know CJ; he’s something in one of the ministries, was drawn into providing an alibi for Jeremy by accident and doesn’t want anything more to do with him.’

  ‘What a pleasant man.’

  ‘Well, at least he doesn’t tell lies in order to get people to talk to him.’

  ‘Me, tell lies? I’ve had a dozen women offering to leave their husbands in order to languish in my arms.’

  ‘I dare say. But you haven’t been stupid enough to fall for a girl young enough to be your granddaughter. In any case, we can’t assume it’s the same girl every time.’

  ‘All right. Let’s look at it another way. There’s a brain behind the girl or girls. How do these girls know which men might fall for their charms? Are they picking out vulnerable but moneyed men by accident?’

  Bea could see where this was leading. ‘You think there must be an older, worldly-wise person behind the scenes, selecting the men and teaming the girls up with them.’

  ‘In the only case about which we know anything for certain, a photographer was involved. Could he be the brains behind the scam? Is this a two-person venture?’

  ‘From what Jeremy said about the photographer in his case, it doesn’t sound likely. I’ll have to ask him. Mind you, the most unlikely people can be found studying the Financial Times at breakfast. But it takes a certain cast of mind to think up the means by which the girls make contact with these older men. A bicycle accident. A mistaken address. Saving a pretty young thing from a mugger. It seems to me that these are ca
refully thought up, even orchestrated, events. It looks like a three or even four person group to me.’

  She struck her hands together. ‘Oh, this is nonsense. These are probably isolated instances in which vulnerable men are taken for a ride by a number of bright young things.’

  Piers put his arm around Bea’s shoulders. ‘You don’t believe that, do you?’

  She shook her head. She didn’t remove his arm, either. It was a comfort, even if her wiser self knew that in ten minutes’ time he might be putting his arm around another woman, who would possibly be younger and prettier than Bea. Still. For the moment, she accepted it.

  He nuzzled her ear. ‘And you’ve been thinking about my proposition?’

  She nodded. It didn’t seem quite as outrageous now as it had done at first.

  ‘Good. The light at the top of your house should be fine for painting.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’ She eased herself out from under his arm. ‘That’s Maggie and Oliver’s home.’ And she could just imagine the chaos Piers would create in her household, demanding attention at all hours of the day and night. And suppose he wanted to bring a woman in . . . No!

  ‘But you said—’

  ‘I’m not saying anything, or promising anything. There’s a lot to consider and I’ll let you know when I’ve thought it all through.’

  ‘Worth a try.’ He looked at his watch, and picked out another canvas to put on his easel. This one was blank. He selected some photographs from a clutch of papers on the table and pinned one up above the canvas. ‘I’m not sure how this one is going to turn out. I’ve had two attempts at this man already and abandoned both. Third time lucky.’

  ‘I can take a hint.’ Bea finished off her coffee and departed.

  Saturday noon

  ‘Calm down, Phil. You’re wearing the carpet out.’

  ‘How can you make jokes when—’

  ‘My job is to do the thinking for all of you, and not to let you fly off like a Catherine Wheel.’