Saturday afternoon
Bea found Maggie in her office, brushing her hands across her cheeks. Had she been crying? Twice in one week? This was so unlike the girl.
‘Maggie? You’re being very quiet.’
Since Bea last saw it, Maggie’s office had been taken apart even more. Her noticeboards were empty. The papers and stacks of catalogues had been moved, in orderly fashion, into a number of cardboard boxes. More boxes held samples of soft furnishings, different woods, and tiles; everything Maggie needed for her work.
Oliver crowded in after Bea. ‘What’s been happening around here? Where’s your computer and your printer? And the landline phone?’
Maggie wasn’t looking at them. ‘Ianthe’s been tidying up. She wants to use this office for herself, and of course she’s right. I shouldn’t be hogging this space, especially when I’m so horribly incompetent.’
Bea put her arm round Maggie. ‘You are not incompetent. You are one of the most efficient project managers I’ve ever come across.’
Maggie wailed. ‘But I ordered the wrong number of tiles! Look!’ She thrust a typed copy of an order form at Bea. ‘There’s not enough to complete the job, and I’m paying the tiler double time to complete the job today and it’s all my fault!’
‘You don’t make that kind of mistake,’ said Bea. ‘Who typed this?’
A shrug from Maggie. ‘I don’t know. I asked Celia to . . . but then she left, and Ianthe said she’d try to find someone to do it for me, and as I was short of time, she said she’d see it was put in the post for me.’
Ianthe strikes again?
Bea said, ‘Where are your notes on this job?’
Maggie lifted her hands, helplessly. ‘I had them there, in my in tray. But it’s been emptied. I suppose it’s in one of these boxes, but I don’t know which one.’
Oliver and Bea exchanged glances. Bea said, ‘I’ll have a word with Ianthe on Monday morning. This can’t go on.’
Oliver took the copy of the order from Maggie. ‘How many more tiles do you need?’
‘A hundred and fifty. But it’s Saturday afternoon, and—’
‘If I can borrow the car . . .’ He raised his eyebrows at Bea, in an unspoken request, and she nodded. He said, ‘Maggie; you and I will go out to the depot, get the rest of the tiles and take them round to the tiler. No, first I’ll ring the depot and make sure they’ve got enough and will keep them on one side for us. What’s their phone number?’
Maggie looked wildly around. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps in this box . . . or that one over there? The catalogue has a black and silver cover.’
Bea and Oliver each took a box to search for it. Maggie did so, too. Bea held up a tile manufacturer’s catalogue. ‘This it?’
Maggie fell on the book while Oliver got out his mobile phone. ‘Read the number out to me.’
While he dealt with the matter of the tiles, Bea sat back on her heels . . . until her knees protested and she hauled herself to her feet.
She went back into her office and threw open the doors to the garden. It was cool and shady out there. She wandered outside, wondering whether to get the garden chairs out or not. The big urns which Maggie had planted up with summer bedding were doing well; red, white and apricot geraniums, mixed with Busy Lizzies and trailing ivies. The high walls surrounding the garden muted the noises of the neighbourhood.
The sycamore tree, too, was quiet this evening. Earlier there’d been a breeze, but now the leaves were still. Bea stood under the tree, with her hand on the bark. A blackbird – or was it a starling? – flew to a branch high overhead. And squawked. No, it was bigger than a blackbird. It must be a pigeon.
All God’s children. Pigeons and starlings; Maggie . . . and Ianthe.
Whatever had possessed Ianthe to make out that Maggie was incompetent and oust her from her office? Maggie’s skills didn’t run to computers but, with proper office backup, she could manage a miscellaneous workforce of plumbers, electricians, tilers and any number of assorted clients, without turning a hair.
So why, Ianthe? Why?
Was she doing this solely because she wanted the kudos of an office of her own? She might think it didn’t matter if Maggie worked upstairs in the newly-created loft extension. In a way it did – and in a way it didn’t. But Maggie did need secretarial assistance, and it was up to Bea to sort that out for her. Again Bea regretted Celia’s departure.
Dear Lord above, whatever is going on here?
Like an echo at the back of her head, she heard a voice say: All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.
Yes, dear Lord. I understand that, and I’m not going to sit back and let Maggie be sidelined. I have to take action. But is Ianthe really evil? I thought I’d know if I ever met someone who was evil, but I don’t feel repulsed by her. I feel . . . I feel that she looks at me . . .
How did Ianthe look at Bea when she wasn’t fluttering around pretending to be a dizzy blonde? She looked as if she were a blackbird considering how best to tackle a worm. She looked at Bea as if she were a problem to be dealt with.
Evil can grow from a tiny shoot. Ambition eases the conscience. Inconvenient truths become of no importance. Ambition dictates that the greater good must prevail.
So in Ianthe’s eyes, Maggie is expendable? She’s undermined Maggie’s confidence – a relatively easy thing to do. She’s tried to destroy mine – not so easy. But she’s tried to cut the links between Oliver and me – and almost succeeded – because . . . because . . . why? Because she thinks he might fight on my side?
But – to what purpose? Why is Ianthe doing this? Is there some connection to Max and his ambitions here?
Silence. Apparently, it was up to her to find out.
Oliver put his head out of the door. ‘The sooner Maggie passes her driving test the better! And don’t say she’ll never make it, because I’m determined she will. I’d better give her some tuition in the summer holidays. Anyway, we’re off, now. Oh; car keys?’
‘Usual place. Kitchen cupboard.’
He nodded, vanished.
She stood there for a while, with her hand on the tree. She allowed her worries to sink down to the back of her mind. She listened to the song of the birds that nested in the sycamore. She heard the pigeon flap away. Some blue tits swooped down to feed on the nuts which Maggie had hung from a branch of the laburnum near the house.
Maggie had bought Bea a bird bath for her birthday. Bea was standing so still that two sparrows came down to perch on the edge to drink. They rarely got right down into the water . . . but then a blackbird arrived and plunged in, fluttering his wings, sending a shower of fine drops over the sparrows, who chirruped but didn’t remove themselves. Perhaps they enjoyed the shower?
I love this house and this garden, said Bea to herself. Would it really be for the greater good if I had to leave?
Who would gain? Max, and his family. But he can afford to buy a house with a garden somewhere in the suburbs, can’t he? Somewhere on a tube line which will take him into Westminster quickly. So why should I have to move?
I don’t have to.
And Piers? Does my dear ex-husband really want to resume conjugal relations with me? Perhaps he does. Perhaps he’s getting to a stage in life when he thinks he might settle down and play at being monogamous.
I couldn’t trust him. Not on past form. Do leopards ever change their spots? I don’t think so. He’ll still be attracting women when he’s in his eighties. Besides which, I don’t want a man under my feet all the time, needing to be waited on, and considered, and taking charge of the remote control for the television. Wanting to watch sport on television when I want to be quiet. No.
There was a movement on the balcony above, where the outside iron stairs curled up to provide access to the kitchen and sitting room French windows. The birds all flew up in alarm.
Jeremy Waite, still wearing his incongruous grey pyjamas. ‘Mrs Abbot, there’s someone at the front door, ringing the bell.
I can’t quite make out who it is, and I don’t want to . . . dressed like this. Do you think my jeans might be dry by now?’
‘Probably.’ She made her way up the outside stairs and through the kitchen to the front door. Oliver had had a spy hole installed some time ago so she inspected their caller, put the chain on the door and opened it a few inches.
‘Detective Inspector Durrell.’ A stockily-built man, swarthy as Oliver. Short dark hair, a strong face, heavy-lidded eyes. He held up his ID.
She nodded, let him in. ‘You heard we had a potential kidnapping?’
Jeremy danced around behind her. ‘I am not going down to the police station wearing pyjamas.’
‘No, of course not. Inspector, would you mind waiting while I see if my guest’s clothes are fit to wear yet?’
Bea hurried Jeremy through to the kitchen, and the DI followed them. ‘Who said anything about going down to the station? It’s a Saturday afternoon, isn’t it? I ought to be taking my sons to watch Fulham play.’
‘Fulham, is it?’ Jeremy perched on a stool. ‘Now I’m all for a good game – but I prefer a smaller ground. Brentford for me.’
Bea started to pull Jeremy’s clothing out of the drier, checking to see if any keys or other important articles had been left in them. ‘You men and football!’
Jeremy seized on a worn pair of jeans, with an expression of delight. ‘These are the most comfortable ones I’ve ever had. And, oh – here’s my house keys, too. Just a mo, and I’ll change.’
Bea held up a couple of T-shirts. ‘Don’t you need one of these?’
He grabbed one from Bea and disappeared into the hall to change.
Bea shouted after him. ‘What about socks? And where are your shoes?’
He didn’t reply. She sighed and folded the rest of the clothes into a neat pile. ‘Inspector, a cuppa while we wait for him?’
‘I wouldn’t mind.’ He took a stool. He had an air of calm, a restful presence. ‘You really think it was an attempted kidnapping?’
‘What else?’ Bea switched the kettle on and shook the biscuit tin, which was, surprisingly, full. Jeremy couldn’t have found it yet. Or perhaps Maggie had replenished it behind his back. The cat Winston appeared as if by magic. Naturally. She shoved him off the work surface, knowing he’d be back on again as soon as her back was turned.
Jeremy returned, still barefoot, but now wearing a T-shirt with a hole in it and his jeans. He was smiling. ‘I wouldn’t mind another cuppa, too.’
Bea made tea in her biggest teapot and put the milk carton on the table for the men to help themselves. What had Maggie planned for them to eat at supper time? She investigated the contents of the fridge. Mm. Not enough sausages to feed four of them, especially as Oliver could eat as much as Jeremy.
There was some half-thawed braising steak, which had probably been intended for tomorrow. Let tomorrow take care of itself. She put it in the microwave to finish thawing and reached for the big Le Creuset stew pot.
Jeremy and the inspector both had their hands in the biscuit tin. Jeremy seemed disposed to like the inspector. He said, ‘We can describe the kidnapper to you. But, oh . . . where’s Oliver gone? He put our notes on his laptop. He plays the keys like a professional pianist.’
The DI poured them both a cuppa. ‘Tell me what you remember.’
Jeremy told him. He was surprisingly good at remembering details.
Bea busied herself sautéing a chopped onion, and she added whatever leftover vegetables she could find at the bottom of the fridge. A stock cube. Bay leaves? Yes, a couple of those. Salt and pepper and a clove of garlic. Water.
‘Have you anything to add, Mrs Abbot?’
Bea popped the stew into the oven, thinking hard. ‘Well, Maggie thought he might be the same man who delivered the pizza here last night, but then she said he couldn’t be because that man had bushy dark eyebrows, and this man didn’t. Only, she didn’t seem sure about it. She’s out, by the way, and so is Oliver. Business. They’ll be back in a couple of hours, maybe.’
The DI seemed to like shortbread, whereas Jeremy was going for the chocolate-covered biscuits. The DI said, ‘So the man yesterday was distinguished by thick eyebrows, whereas the man today wore a toupee and thick-rimmed tinted glasses? A good con man adds something distinctive to his appearance, something you’d remember above all else. Heavy eyebrows. Glasses. Toupee. If you took those away, could it be the same man?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t see the man last night.’ Should she make a cake, as well? Oliver would appreciate it, never mind Jeremy.
‘I didn’t see him, either,’ said Jeremy, eyeing the last chocolate biscuit. ‘But he asked for me by name, which must mean he knew I was here. But, how ever could he have tracked me down? And why? What does he want with me?’
Bea shivered. ‘Leave it to the police. They’ll find out.’
TEN
Jeremy’s hand hovered over the biscuit tin. ‘Inspector, am I officially off the hook for Josie’s death?’
‘We know you couldn’t have killed her. She was a tall girl, wasn’t she?’
‘Five ten?’
‘Near enough. She took a couple of blows to the head, which probably knocked her out, and was then strangled by someone with big hands.’
Jeremy choked on his biscuit. Served him right for taking the last one.
The DI hit Jeremy on his back. ‘Your hands are on the small side, aren’t they? Is that a problem when playing the piano?’
‘Poor Josie.’ Jeremy wiped his eyes. ‘She was just a little country girl, you know, bemused by the big city.’
Bea felt her eyebrows rise as she took flour, sugar, eggs and corn oil out of the cupboard and started weighing ingredients.
The DI seemed to share her feelings. ‘It would help us a lot, Mr Waite, if you could tell us everything you can remember about Josie. You said you were on good terms, right up to the moment she sprung her little, er, surprise on you. Did she say where she came from?’
‘A village somewhere in Ireland. I don’t think she ever told me where it was. A dead end place, no jobs for a bright girl.’
‘How did she come to England?’
‘Some boy she met at a dance fell in love with her, promised her marriage, brought her over here under false pretences; the old story, I suppose. Said he’d fix her up with a job and a room to start with – just till he could find somewhere for them to move in together. Then they were to get married. That’s what she told me when she first knocked on my door, anyway. I’m not sure I believe that, now.’
The DI had a notebook out. ‘What address? Can you remember?’
‘Oh yes. It’s in the next street to . . . to where I lived. I went round there once to leave a message for her, and it was true that the woman let rooms out, though she said she wasn’t supposed to. She denied all knowledge of Josie at first, and then said that yes, the girl had had a room there once, but had moved on.’
‘Address?’
Jeremy gave it, wrinkling his brow.
Mm. Bea thought there were similarities here to Angie’s story; the pied-à-terre locally, the rooms to let . . .
The inspector peered into the empty biscuit tin. ‘Probably about half of that was true. He’d get her over here, seduce her and set her to work for him. If she really did come from a village in Ireland and was cut off from her family and friends, she wouldn’t know how to deal with the situation. Can you pinpoint the date she approached you?’
‘Sometime early in the spring term. If I could get hold of my diary . . . I seem to have left it at home, or maybe back at the flat? Oh, that’s a nuisance. I must find it, as I’m sure there’s a meeting I’m supposed to be at next week, or perhaps it was this last week . . . but if I could get hold of it, then I could tell you, because it was just before half term. School half term, I mean.’
Bea separated the eggs, stirred the yolks into the other ingredients, and set the mix aside to line some cake tins with greaseproof paper, all the time wondering how t
he girl had known Jeremy would be a soft touch. He wasn’t an obviously wealthy type, was he? Not at all like the other possible targets she’d heard about.
The DI said, ‘I can check when that was. Now, Mr Waite; you may have been surprised not to be asked to identify the girl you knew as Josie—’
Clearly, it had never occurred to Jeremy that he might have been asked to do so. But, ‘Knew as? You mean the girl that was killed wasn’t Josie?’
‘I mean that the fingerprints of the girl we found at the back of the church have been identified as belonging to a girl called Angela Josephine Butt.’
‘Angie . . .’ said Bea, remembering Piers’ story about another girl who’d been on the Badger Game.
Jeremy was puzzled. ‘Josie’s name was “Butt”? She told me her name was Kelly. Josie Kelly.’
‘Hm. Well. She did use other pseudonyms as well.’
‘She had a record?’ Jeremy was distressed to hear it. ‘For . . .?’
‘Soliciting. In the King’s Cross area. It looks as if a man brought her over from Ireland and put her straight to work. Three convictions, the last one eighteen months ago. Since then, nothing.’
Jeremy hoped for a happy ending, still. ‘So, she was off the game when she met me?’
‘No recent convictions for soliciting, so yes, it does look as if she was off the streets.’
Bea said, ‘On a point of order, do you know how old she was?’
‘Nineteen.’
Jeremy sighed. ‘I said I didn’t think she was sixteen. All that about her being under age was made up to frighten me, wasn’t it? It lost me my job at school . . . but maybe that was a good thing, because I’ve moved on, now.’
The inspector asked, ‘Did she ever try to get you to kiss her, or suggest you got closer?’
He reddened. ‘Well, no. That would have been embarrassing. You see, er, it’s not really my thing. Had a bit of an accident, came off a motorbike when I was twenty-one, my own fault entirely, slippery road, didn’t listen to warnings, had too much to drink . . . but there it is. All that side of things . . . muted, if you see what I mean? Nothing to be done about it.’
False Report Page 12
