False Report

by Veronica Heley

  ‘Great minds think alike.’ Bea collected mugs, milk and sugar, ladled coffee grounds into the percolator, and poured on boiling water.

  Returning to the living room with the food, they found Oliver replacing the handset on the house phone. ‘DI Durrell is off duty but they’ll try to get a message to him. As far as they know, no one had been asked to interview Jeremy again. They were keen for us to make a note of what we can remember of the man.’

  Jeremy pounced on the sandwiches. ‘It’s a nightmare. All I want to do is work, and all this –’ he waved his arms – ‘interferes.’

  ‘We should make some notes while his visit is fresh in our minds.’ Oliver popped a sandwich into his mouth and got his laptop out of his rucksack. ‘Hold on while I boot up and open a new document.’

  Maggie said, ‘He looked like a salesman. I think.’

  ‘Hold on, hold on!’ cried Oliver. ‘Right, now. Height; about five ten. Build; well built, not skinny. Age; about fifty. Hair; he was wearing a chestnut brown toupee—’

  ‘Was he?’ said Maggie. ‘I would never have guessed.’

  ‘You can tell better from the back,’ said Oliver, tapping keys. ‘There’s a sort of ledge or overhang. Glasses; slightly tinted, heavy frames. Eyes . . . what colour would you say? Mrs Abbot, you’re good at noticing these things.’

  ‘My impression is – hazel.’ Bea closed her eyes the better to recall what she’d seen. ‘Hip-length jacket, waterproof, in a sad green colour. Brownish to khaki trousers, not jeans. Green-and-white checked shirt, open at the neck. Slip-on shoes, brown, polished. No socks. His head was oval-shaped . . . There’s probably a technical term for it, but I don’t know what it is. Clean shaven. Good teeth but slightly irregular; so probably his own. His watch was a good one; a Rolex with lots of little dials on it. A heavy metal bracelet for it – silver . . . no, steel. No piercings, no tattoos. Naturally pale skin, hardly any suntan, so either he doesn’t like being in the sun or maybe he’s on some medication or other . . . Perhaps he’s been ill?’

  ‘Or in prison?’ said Jeremy, reaching for the last-but-one sandwich.

  ‘A slight paunch,’ said Maggie, fending Jeremy off to divide the very last sandwich in two and share it with him. ‘Not really noticeable, but his shirt bulged ever so slightly over his trousers in the front.’

  They thought for a while. Eventually, Oliver said, ‘Did I imagine a slight brogue?’

  Jeremy looked longingly at the empty sandwich plate. ‘Irish. Baritone. Josie was Irish, too, although you could hardly tell. I’d say they’d both been in this country for years. This man was well educated, to judge by his voice. Better educated than Josie, come to think of it.’

  Maggie said, ‘I wonder . . . I wonder if our visitor could be the man who tried to deliver a pizza to Jeremy last night; only, he wasn’t wearing a toupee then, or glasses. Oh, no. How could it be?’

  ‘Why not? What was the colour of his hair?’

  ‘Couldn’t see. He wore one of those soft caps with a stiffened brim at the front that older men often wear. No, it can’t be the same man, surely, because the pizza man had very heavy, dark eyebrows, almost meeting over his nose. I never gave him a thought. He was just any old passer-by doing a favour for someone else. The sort who walks their dog in the evening, you know?’

  ‘Dressed?’

  Maggie shrugged. ‘A light-coloured shirt, open at the neck, no tie. Jeans, I think. I was on the phone to Oliver; I hardly looked at him.’

  Bea beat off Winston, who was trying to steal the last of her sandwich. ‘Jeremy, could our visitor have been the photographer who tried to get money out of you?’

  ‘Oh, no. A very different type. The photographer was tallish, thinnish, lighter in weight, skinnier, shaven-headed. The usual London accent, state school not private, a tenor voice, somewhat rough. Not particularly well educated. He shouted at me. I suppose he thought he could frighten me, being so much taller.’

  Maggie collected empty plates. ‘Weren’t you frightened, then?’

  ‘I couldn’t believe it was really happening. And then I got angry. It was only afterwards, when I found that Eunice didn’t believe me, or Clarissa . . . That really upset me. But frightened? I suppose I ought to have been. Now I am, yes. Because . . . how long is this going to go on? What did they want with me today?’

  No one could answer that question.

  The little man wandered over to his keyboard, sat, and let his fingers explore a melody. A melancholy tune. ‘I’d like to write something for Josie. A goodbye song for her.’ He murmured to himself, rather than to them. ‘You promised me . . . a life of bliss . . . No, a life of ease.’ He played a discord, put his hands in his lap. ‘There was a lot of good in her, you know. She used to talk, sometimes, about her life back home in Ireland. She said it was a dead end village with no jobs, which is why she came to London with a friend. Boyfriend, I think. In search of the bright lights. I don’t think she made it up. I took her out one day into the countryside near Oxford for a birthday treat, and she loved it. She didn’t lie to me all the time, did she?’

  Bea collected dirty plates. ‘You hired a car?’

  ‘I have a car, a little Toyota, very useful, but most of the time Clarissa used it because of getting to rehearsals all over the place. She was out in it the night Eunice told me to leave, or I’d have used it to cart away my stuff. I didn’t bother to go back for it because there’s no parking at the flat I moved into. I suppose my car’s still in the garage at home.’

  Add a garage to a house in Kensington and you add noughts to the price.

  ‘Have you still got the keys to the car – and your house keys?’

  ‘Mm. They’re probably in my jeans in the drier.’ He started to pick out a melody again, singing along in a hushed voice, ‘You promised me . . . a life of ease. You promised me, our love would last . . .’

  A mobile phone trilled, and Maggie answered it. ‘What do you mean, you can’t finish . . .’ She wandered out into the kitchen taking a handful of mugs with her.

  Oliver helped Bea take everything else out to the kitchen and stack the dishwasher.

  Maggie disappeared down the stairs, still talking. ‘What tiles are you short of ? I thought you’d got . . .’

  Oliver went to stand by the kitchen door, looking down at the shady garden below. ‘Jeremy’s innocent, isn’t he? So why is CJ getting into such a state about him?’

  ‘If I read him correctly, CJ doesn’t like being dragged down to mortal status, having to answer questions from the police and being suspected of aiding or abetting a murderer. He is used to being that rarefied being, an expert whose character is beyond reproach. He finds it upsetting to have his word doubted. It’s knocked him off his pedestal, and he wants to shed Jeremy and all his problems and go back to being Mr Perfect.’

  Oliver laughed. ‘Yes.’

  Bea put her arm through his. ‘He offered you a place to live, if I threw you out?’

  Oliver continued to look down at the garden, and not at her. ‘I never knew what the word “home” meant till you took me in. When I thought you wanted to get rid of me, I was too upset to think clearly. I wasted all that time worrying, when I could have rung you and got things straightened out.’

  ‘Except that you thought my mobile number had been changed, so you couldn’t have rung me.’

  ‘I could have got to you through Maggie, and I didn’t. Or rather, we did talk, but she thought she was on the skids, too. Did you know she was trying to find a place where we could live together? And yes, CJ did offer me a room, but . . . And then Maggie was on the phone to me last night when that man tried to deliver a pizza for Jeremy, though no one should have known he was here. So I rang CJ and he said I’d better come back and deal with things, and he’d fetch me in the morning. Which he did. But he didn’t really explain what he wanted me to do.’

  ‘I don’t know what we can do.’

  ‘Let’s go downstairs, see what’s happening there.’

&nbs
p; NINE

  Oliver said, ‘You think this new manageress of yours, Ianthe, sent Maggie and me texts saying you’d changed your mobile number? Why should she do that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Bea was frustrated. ‘Sometimes I think I’m imagining things. Sometimes I think she’s trying to undermine me, only I can’t think why. Let me tell you exactly what’s been going on.’

  Down in the agency rooms, Oliver booted up one of the office computers, and then moved into Bea’s office to do hers. Both asked for a fresh password.

  Bea was furious. ‘Anna gave me the latest password before she left, and I stayed behind last night to make sure Ianthe couldn’t get at her machine to change it, but she has.’

  Oliver was amused. ‘She’s probably set a new password to come into effect at the end of each working day. That way no one can access the system at night or over a weekend. A commendable precaution to take, in one sense.’

  ‘So we can’t get into the system?’

  ‘Of course we can.’ He wandered back into the big room and sat at Ianthe’s work station. He pulled out drawers, checking the contents. ‘You say she uses a combination of upper and lower-case letters, mixed with numbers? That’s too complicated for anyone to guess, which means it’s also too complicated for her to remember from day to day. She must keep a record somewhere. A calendar is the usual place to look . . . No, there’s nothing on the office calendar. Her desk diary, perhaps? She must have one.’

  ‘A big black book, a page a day.’

  ‘Top right hand drawer – locked. All the other drawers are open. No keys left around?’

  They looked, but there were none. Bea said, ‘I saw her lock the drawer and put her keys into her handbag, and didn’t realize what she was doing.’

  Oliver tried poking a paper knife into the lock. No go. He grinned. ‘How much do you want to break her hold on the system? You could leave it till Monday and confront her. Or, would you like to authorize me to break the lock?’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to see someone do that. Do you need a screwdriver or something?’

  ‘This desk is your property, so breaking the lock is not a crime. Unless – would you rather summon a locksmith?’

  ‘On a Saturday afternoon? He wouldn’t come till Monday morning, anyway, unless I paid a tremendous call-out fee.’

  ‘Neither would he. A chisel would be best, I think. Hold on, and I’ll get one from the toolbox under the stairs.’

  It took him six minutes to find a chisel and hammer, and to break the lock. He opened the drawer and there was the black book.

  ‘It was bought with agency money,’ said Bea, ‘to record what’s happening at the agency every day. So it’s my property, not hers, and I can do what I like with it.’

  He flicked through the pages. ‘Well thought out. She’s written down what the password is to be for each day in the month. The changeover time is nineteen-hundred hours, well after everyone’s finished in the evening. She has a tidy mind, hasn’t she? Now, would you like to invent some more passwords for me to put into the system?’

  ‘No need. Whoever has the book controls the system. The book belongs to the agency, and I have every right to use it as I think fit. Give me the pages out of the book, and I’ll keep them safe – and use them myself.’

  ‘She might have another copy somewhere. I think you’d better write down and give me a list of some different passwords, which I’ll put in for the rest of the month. And please, keep your own copy somewhere safe.’

  She had to agree he was right. ‘Very well. Now, while I’m doing that, can you access the firm’s Christmas card list and print off a copy for me? My address book seems to have got ruined somehow, and I desperately need some telephone numbers and addresses, particularly Celia’s and Miss Brook’s.’

  She composed a random series of letters and numbers to act as the new passwords, while he pressed keys and printed off the required list.

  Oliver put Bea’s new passwords into the computer, but didn’t look any happier when he’d finished. ‘Ianthe’s list stopped at the end of this month. I wonder what happens then? Perhaps she just hasn’t got round to doing next month’s passwords, or perhaps . . . You know her better than I do. Why do you think she’s playing games with you?’

  ‘It’s driving me insane, trying to work out what she’s up to. I thought at first that she was working for Jackson’s, another agency, who would like to buy me out. But if so, then surely she’d want to run the agency down so that he could get it at a rock bottom price? Instead, she’s building it up. The client list has expanded and we’re worth far more now than when she started.’

  ‘So it’s not that.’

  ‘Then I wondered if she were trying to take it over herself, by pushing me into early retirement, making out that I’m no longer up to the job. Several odd things have happened which would normally lead me to wonder if I’m losing my marbles—’

  ‘Which you’re not.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. No, I’m not. But on the other hand, I’ve come to realize that the agency has changed direction. I’m not exactly sure how or why it’s come about, but I don’t feel that I’m on top of things as I used to be. Yes, we’re thriving, on paper. Our client list looks healthy, but a new problem has arisen; I don’t think we’re giving value for money any longer. Too many complaints.’

  He looked startled.

  She nodded. ‘They were very rare in the old days, weren’t they? But Ianthe is dealing with the increased demand for our services by using half-trained or untrained staff. I suspect some of them may have been let go when that other local agency folded, and we’ve taken their people on without checking their credentials.’

  He gave her an odd look. ‘Now I gathered from CJ – don’t bite my head off; it’s his idea, not mine – that he would like you to finish with the agency and settle down into a gentle retirement, perhaps carrying out the odd bit of detective work for him.’

  ‘Does he, really? Well, that’s a ridiculous suggestion.’

  ‘Mm. You’re good at it.’

  ‘I suppose an occasional foray into . . . No, no! Doing it every day would be too rich a diet for me. I need to lead a bread and butter life, helping clients out of difficulties, solving people’s domestic problems. Besides which, running the agency enables me to stay on in this lovely house, buy my clothes at Harvey Nicholls and have a manicure whenever I want it.’

  ‘Not to mention keeping a home going for your two adopted orphans of the storm. Though Maggie is not technically an orphan, since her terrifying mother is still very much alive . . . and I suppose mine might be, too, if ever I bothered to look for her.’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  He shrugged. ‘No.’

  Bea thought he would look for her, some day. But perhaps not yet.

  ‘The other possibility,’ she said, ‘is that Max has been stirring the pot. He would very much like me to sell up and retire to the seaside, so that he can move into this house. He said he knew of someone wanting to buy me out. I assumed at first that he meant Jackson’s, but that half-baked agency isn’t likely to swim in the waters which Max frequents. Perhaps there’s another, bigger concern out there pulling his strings – and Ianthe’s? Only, I can’t quite see what she’d get out of it.’

  He yawned. ‘Will you confront her on Monday?’

  ‘I’ll have to, won’t I? Because she won’t be able to access the system without me giving her the new password. Thanks for running off the Christmas card list for me; remind me to buy a new address book. My old one seems to have had an encounter with a cup of coffee in Maggie’s office. She says she hadn’t put it there, and I believe her. Which reminds me . . . she’s awfully quiet, isn’t she?’

  Saturday afternoon

  Phil was taking the new girl through her act. ‘No, Kath. Put some emotion into it.’

  ‘I’m not one of your poncey actresses.’

  ‘No, dear. You’re an extremely pretty young girl, who’s about to ea
rn herself a lot of money. Now, let’s go through it again. You’ve been taken into an exclusive hotel bar by a man much older than yourself. You’re not interested in him—’

  ‘That’s for sure. Especially if it’s you.’

  ‘Yes, dear. It’ll be me, togged up like a city gent. I find you a seat near the target, whose picture I’ve showed you. You do remember what he looks like?’

  ‘A slug.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps you might think that at first. But then you’ll remember how many millions he’s got in the bank, and that makes a difference, doesn’t it?’

  ‘All right. Get on with it.’

  ‘I buy you a drink, a large one, and urge you to get it down you. You hardly touch the drink—’

  ‘You keep telling me I can’t drink, I can’t smoke, I can’t swear, and I can’t get in touch with my old boyfriend—’

  ‘True; and we won’t be beating you up because you’ve failed to turn enough tricks on the street, either. Just touch the glass to your lips and put it down again. Act as if you’re a little bit frightened . . . All right, skip the acting. We’ll work to your strengths. I put my arm around you and fondle your breasts—’

  ‘I can put up with a lot worse than that.’

  ‘I know you can. But this time you push me away. Look really upset. Can you make yourself cry on demand?’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘All right. Suppose I have a stinky smelling hankie in my top pocket. You’d want to push me away then, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Dead right, I would. That’s when I turn to the slug and ask him to rescue me?’

  ‘You’ve got the idea, at last. Can you make your lower lip tremble . . .? No, perhaps not. We’ll just have to rely on your stunning looks and a flash of lacy underwear. Good girl. You’ve earned yourself a pat on the back.’

  ‘I’d rather have a glass of Red Bull, if it’s all the same to you. Now, can I watch the telly?’

  Once Kath was installed in front of the television, he got out his mobile phone. ‘Nance? Phil here. She’ll do, though she’s not a patch on Josie. Now, about the little man . . .’