False Report

by Veronica Heley

  Bea suspended operations with the egg whisk. ‘You mean . . . you can’t? In bed?’ She blushed.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Jeremy, not perturbed. ‘All in the past. They said some feeling might return eventually, but so far it hasn’t. Can’t be helped. Life goes on.’

  ‘But if Josie never tried . . .’ She glanced at the DI, whose mouth, she noted, was also hanging open.

  The DI recovered to say, ‘She didn’t ever suggest anything in that direction?’

  Delicately put. Bea shook herself. She began to fold egg whites into the mixture and scoop it into the cake tins.

  ‘No, never. Not until, you know, that last night.’ Jeremy’s eyes were on Bea. ‘Are you making a sponge cake? My first wife used to make it like that.’

  ‘Your first . . .?’

  ‘Didn’t last.’ He sighed. ‘We were newly married when it happened. I thought we might adopt, but she decided to try someone whose equipment was functioning properly, so that was that. And then, when I met Eunice, she said she didn’t mind.’

  ‘Eunice knew?’ Bea heard her voice squeak as she transferred the stew pot to the bottom of the oven, popped the cake mix in on top, and turned up the gas.

  ‘Oh yes. Of course. She said she wanted a quiet life after the disaster of her first marriage; he beat her up, you know. Well, he only did it the once, because Eunice wasn’t one to be put upon. It’s only recently that I realized she was perhaps hankering after a little more excitement in that direction.’ He sighed. Then brightened. ‘How long will the cake be?’

  Bea handed him the pile of his clothes. ‘Take those upstairs, put them away, and find yourself some shoes to wear. By that time the cake will be done.’

  The DI closed the door after Jeremy. ‘He doesn’t realize, does he?’

  ‘You think Josie must have been told by someone – someone who knew about Jeremy’s disability – not to go down that road? You think that’s why she never tried anything – before the end?’

  ‘Which didn’t matter, because all they needed to do was to get photographs of her naked and clutching him.’

  ‘Only, instead of standing by her man, Eunice turned him out of the house, though she knew he was physically incapable of making love to Josie.’

  ‘Which means she used it as an excuse to get rid of him.’

  The DI said, softly. ‘Ouch. Poor little man.’

  ‘He’s in the clear for Josie’s murder?’

  ‘Unless we discover he hired someone to do it for him.’

  ‘Why would he? He’d already lost everything he had: his home, his job – even his car. Oh, I suppose you could say he turned on Josie and killed her in revenge for what she’d done to him. Nah. Doesn’t sound like him.’

  ‘We’re looking at anyone who might have known Josie in the past, someone who knew her when she was on the streets, someone who might know what happened to her after that.’

  Bea started to clear up. ‘You might find – I’m not sure that it’s the same girl – but I’m told a girl named Angie worked the Badger Game on an elderly businessman, who later committed suicide. Neither he nor his son could believe the girl wasn’t as innocent as the newborn day. Elderly man was caught when he fiddled the books – presumably to pay the girl off – by which time the girl had vanished from her lodgings. The problem is that the widow and the son say they’ll deny everything if you start asking questions.’

  ‘You think two or three people are doing this as a regular means of income?’

  Bea counted on her fingers. ‘Josie, who may also have been working as “Angie”; the photographer; and the pseudo policeman who called on us today. Three people. My point is that if they’ve done it once, perhaps they’ve done it several times.’

  ‘And maybe will again? There’s a nasty thought.’ His mobile phone pinged, and he pulled it out with a sigh. ‘The wife. Texting to know when I’ll be back. I’d better go. You’ll keep the little man safe from harm?’

  ‘I’m supposed to keep him safe from would-be kidnappers? How? With a non-existent baseball bat? Or perhaps with a hockey stick? Except that I’ve never played hockey. What do they want him for, anyway?’

  ‘I wish I knew. I wish I had unlimited resources and could put a policeman on guard at your door, twenty-four seven. I wish I’d won the lottery and that I didn’t have piles. You’ll let me know if anything else happens, won’t you?’

  She showed him to the front door. ‘My regards to CJ.’

  ‘To who?’ But he smiled. Did he know? Or not? She couldn’t decide. He lifted his hand in farewell and trudged off down the street.

  As Bea watched him leave, a well-known car drove up, and her son Max got out. ‘Glad you’re in, Mother. We need to talk.’

  Saturday afternoon

  ‘Listen, Nance. This is foolproof. We can’t get at the little man while he’s in the Abbot woman’s house because there’s too many other people there. Now, you remember I’m on good terms with Jason, the man who runs the coffee shop under the flat where the little man used to live? Yes, yes; the flat we trashed.

  ‘Well, the landlord is livid about this, right? So I’m just going to pop round to the café – Jason’s open all weekend – and tell him I spotted the little man going into a house nearby, and give him the Abbot woman’s name and telephone number. I’ll suggest the landlord might be pleased to know where his tenant is to be found. Right?’

  ‘Without letting on that you were involved with trashing the flat, you mean?’

  ‘I’ll suggest the landlord might like to get on the phone to the little man and tell him to get over there straight away to talk about paying for the damage. Right? It’s a quiet street, and in a little while, at dusk, say, it’ll be even quieter.

  ‘Jonno and I will be across the way in the van he can borrow; belongs to his brother-in-law or something. So we pick the little man up when he arrives. Foolproof. A shot of mace in his face, he’ll be right out of it, we pop a bag over him, shove him in the back of the van, tie him up and get out of there. Jonno will drive us out to the industrial estate, no one much out there of a Saturday evening . . . and Bob’s your uncle.’

  ‘I don’t like it. We’re all set to go on the next one, so why not forget—’

  ‘I can’t forget. Every time I look at Kath, I think how much better Josie did it. We flew high, with her. This Kath, I don’t know, not much between the ears, is there? She’s as likely to light a cigarette or down a double vodka as smile at the right man. When I think how clever Josie was . . . I could spit. You’ve got to let me have this, Nance. I can’t think straight till we’ve avenged Josie.’

  Saturday afternoon

  Bea let Max into the house, wishing he’d leave her alone for a while. He was going to talk about her selling the agency and moving out of the house, and she wasn’t prepared for either. ‘I’ve a cake in the oven. Come through to the kitchen.’

  ‘Ah, that takes me back. I must say, you bake a good cake. What sort is it?’

  His favourite was chocolate. ‘A sponge. I’ll see what jam I can find to put in it.’

  He seated himself on a stool, hefted the teapot, which was empty. ‘Any chance of a cuppa?’

  She took the two halves of the cake out of the oven and laid them aside on a rack to cool. She found a clean mug, switched on the kettle again. Smiled at him. This little scene took her back to the long gone days after Piers had upped and left them to fend for themselves. She would come in, dog-tired from cleaning someone’s pigsty of a house, and find Max home from school, trying to cope with his maths homework. She’d fry up some fish fingers for their tea, and he’d say, ‘Never mind, Mum. One day I’m going to be a millionaire, and I’ll look after you so that you’ll never need to work again.’ He’d meant it, too. The dear boy.

  Only, it hadn’t turned out like that, because she’d gone to work for Hamilton and soon been running his office . . . and one thing had led to another . . . and that dear man had scooped up mother and son to take them into his heart
and his home.

  Max probably never would be a millionaire, but he was a steady, honest and loyal member of parliament, who worked hard for his constituency. He’d been a handsome lad, taking after her side of the family, rather than Piers. A pity, really; Piers had enough charm to sink a battleship, and the clean-cut lines of his handsome son were becoming blurred by good living, and by a wife whose idea of cooking was based upon the microwave.

  On the other hand, his wife’s parents were happy to back Max in a safe parliamentary seat, and provided he didn’t blot his copy book by straying in the direction of any young blondes, he was probably set for life as a reliable backbencher.

  Bea found a jar of strawberry jam, filled the sandwich, and cut him a big slice.

  ‘Yum,’ was all he said.

  She made them both some tea, checked the stew, turned the oven down to low, and found some potatoes to peel. She liked cooking, but Maggie usually got there first. She said, ‘The family all right?’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Fine. I’ll be going up to join them early next week. Meetings to go to, social events, you know? Now, Mother; have you . . . What was that?’

  A plaintive melody, being played on Jeremy’s keyboard. He must be working on Josie’s tune. ‘That’s my new lodger.’

  ‘What?’ He reddened, puffing out his cheeks.

  ‘Jeremy Waite, the composer.’

  ‘Never heard of him. Mother, you can’t take on a lodger just when you’re about to leave this—’

  ‘I’ve something surprising to tell you. Your father proposes to move back in with me and use the loft extension as his studio.’

  His face! Surprise. Then alarm, as he realized this would be the end of his plan to move back into the house. Then, reflection. What would this mean to him?

  Ah, she could see him sift through the possibilities. It was one thing to have a divorced and widowed mother running a domestic agency, and quite another for her to be the partner of a famous portrait painter. And if he did have to give up his dream of moving back, it would be rather pleasant to drop Piers’ name into conversations, not as a divorced and distant father, but as a very much present and influential part of the family, a man who knew all the right people.

  She sighed. She was afraid Max was becoming something of a snob.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Really? He didn’t mention . . .’ A frown. ‘But he did say something about looking for somewhere else to live. Well, that’s great news.’ He didn’t sound entirely sure that it was good news, but he’d come round to it. ‘What does he think about this Jeremy fellow?’

  ‘I don’t suppose Jeremy will be here for long.’ With luck. If she could sort out his domestic problems for him.

  ‘Oh. Well. I’ll have to tell my dear wife not to start counting her chickens.’

  ‘Quite. Life’s a bowl of cherries, isn’t it? Some good, some bad. Which reminds me; you’ve not been approached by any pretty young things lately, have you? Wanting a snuggle?’

  ‘What?’ He was affronted. ‘Really, Mother.’

  ‘Well, there seems to be a lot of it going about. Then the demands for money kick in. You’re sure?’

  ‘Definitely not. But –’ a smothered grin – ‘there has been some talk about one of my colleagues who . . .’ He shot her a suspicious glance. ‘You’re having me on. You’ve heard all about it.’

  ‘No, tell me.’ She cut him another piece of cake and returned to peeling potatoes.

  ‘His wife has this toy dog, cost him the earth, he hates walking it, but there . . . the price of peace and quiet, I suppose. Anyway, Tibbles – or whatever the dog’s name is – got away from her, in a crowded shop, I think. Went missing. This girl turned up at his place with the dog the following day when his wife was out. Pretty little thing, apparently. Turned his head. Stupid fellow. Ought to have seen it coming. Cocktails for two, hotel room to follow, and snap bang to rights with a camera.’

  ‘It sounds like the same gang who’ve been targeting one or two other wealthy men. I worry that one day, you might—’

  ‘Nonsense. I’m not that stupid.’

  In Bea’s book, he was indeed that stupid. But apparently not this time. Good. ‘Can you give me a name?’

  ‘No, of course not. I was told in confidence. Besides –’ a real belly laugh – ‘he was paying in instalments, but then he lost his seat at the last election, his wife divorced him, so he told them to take a running jump when they complained.’

  ‘When who complained?’

  A shrug. ‘Dunno. Telephone calls, he said. Bags of freshly minted money left in telephone kiosks.’

  ‘There’s a good brain behind these scams, don’t you think? Someone does their homework before they target their victim. They knew about your friend’s dog, and that he was susceptible to advances from a pretty young thing. You don’t happen to remember the girl’s name, by any chance? Or what she looked like?’

  ‘I never heard.’ He turned on his stool, listening to the music coming from the living room. ‘This composer person, whatever his name is. Was he a victim, too?’

  ‘Uh-huh. The police are involved this time because the temptress ended up dead.’

  ‘Oh. My ex honourable friend will be glad to hear it.’ A pause while this sank in. ‘You thought I might be on their list as a target? Well, really, Mother.’

  Bea put some double cream into her smile. ‘Of course not, darling. You’re much too streetwise. But sometimes this gang chooses badly. By the way, do you know someone called Sir Charles something? Bit of a thug, apparently.’

  ‘I see him about. I don’t think you should call him a thug. Potential MP.’

  ‘If you ever get an approach, or hear of anyone else being approached . . . would you let me know?’

  ‘If the girl’s dead—’

  ‘The brain behind the scam isn’t dead.’

  ‘You aren’t getting mixed up in another murder case, are you?’

  ‘Only in so far as I’m letting Jeremy sleep here for a few nights.’

  ‘You can’t let him stay. What about when Piers wants to move in?’

  ‘Then I’ll find him some other place to go. How about your flat? Now you have moved your family up to the Midlands for the long recess—’

  ‘We’ve rented it out, short let, American tourists. No sense letting it stand empty.’

  ‘Indeed.’ She put the last potato into the pan and dried her hands. She said, ‘Ianthe.’

  ‘Mm?’ Round a mouthful of sponge. Emptied his mouth. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Ianthe. Ring a bell?’

  He shook his head. Evidently the name meant nothing to him. Oh well. Strike that idea. He hadn’t been responsible for setting Ianthe on to her.

  He looked at his watch, compared it with the kitchen clock. ‘Must go. What was it I came to see you about?’

  ‘Selling the agency. Though, if Piers moves in . . . he’s never been one for paying bills on time. I may need to keep it going for a while. I’ve had Jackson’s sniffing around—’

  ‘Who?’ Draining his cup, wiping his mouth.

  Neither Ianthe nor Jackson’s seemed to mean anything to him. ‘The other agency who wants to swallow me up?’

  ‘Oh. Them. Double-barrelled name. I’ll have them contact you direct, right?’

  He was on the move, anxious to get on with his busy life.

  Double-barrelled agency? Who on earth could he mean? ‘Someone’s supposed to be contacting me about selling? Is that going to be before or after you leave London?’

  ‘Mm? Before; I suppose.’ He gave her a kiss and left, banging the front door behind him. He’d eaten over half the cake. Did she have the energy to bake another one?

  Jeremy appeared, still barefoot. ‘Was that someone at the door? Ah, cake.’

  Bea cut the remaining cake into three. ‘One slice for you, one for Maggie and one for Oliver. I like the tune you’re working on.’

  He put most of his slice into his mouth. How ever did he manage it?

  ‘
It’s a lament for Josie. A ballad. Unfashionable, ballads. But I couldn’t get it to fit any other form. Can Maggie sing, do you know? She looks as if she might. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. About Eunice and my life. And about Josie, trying to remember if she’d ever said anything that would help. She was a bright, happy little thing, you know. Normally, that is. And a good listener.’ He licked his finger and went round the table, picking up crumbs and popping them in his mouth.

  Winston leaped on to the table. Bea swatted him off and put the remaining two slices of cake high up on a cupboard. The cat could still reach them if he wanted to, but he wasn’t that fond of cake so perhaps it would still be there when the others returned.

  Jeremy looked wistfully after the cake. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to my shoes. Have you seen them? I may have left them at the flat, but I’m not sure I can face going back there. What they did to the piano . . .’ He shuddered. ‘The agents took a whacking great deposit off me so they’ll not be out of pocket. You know, Josie wasn’t happy about setting me up. That last night, when she got off the bed, she gave me a kiss, just a little one on my forehead, just there . . . and she said she was sorry. She’d never kissed me before.’

  Bea found Winston’s brush and began to groom him. He liked that, mostly. Except when he didn’t. Today he lay on his back, with all four paws in the air, and blinked at her. Today he was going to cooperate.

  Jeremy leaned over to rub Winston’s jaw. ‘We never had a cat. Eunice was allergic. A pity. I like cats. Mrs Abbot, if anything happens to me, will you see that Josie’s song gets to my publishers?’

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen to you.’

  ‘Mm. I’d like to make another will, too. But it’s Saturday, isn’t it? Or is it Sunday? No, I think it’s Saturday. I don’t want to wait till Monday. Can you get some information off the Internet about making a will? Then Maggie and Oliver can witness my signature and you can put it in a safe place. Just in case.’

  She didn’t waste her breath saying it wasn’t necessary. He was the oddest mixture of shrewdness and innocence. ‘If it will set your mind at rest.’