False Report

by Veronica Heley

  ‘It sounds possible.’

  ‘Especially when you add the brains behind the Badger Game into the mix. And she is clever, make no mistake. A businesswoman. It takes one to know one. Let me play you the recording I made of our conversation.’

  She played it back. Both listened intently.

  Bea said, ‘How I think it works is this; she picks the target, someone who has a lot to lose if they’re found in bed with a totty. Philip devises an apparently innocent meeting between Josie and the prospect. O’Dare snaps them in bed and asks for money. The girl does as she’s told. I wonder where they got her from? Ireland?’

  ‘O’Dare has never been named as a pimp but, drifting around as he did, he may well have come across a girl who was ripe for a move off the streets and into a nice flat, with all mod cons and a credit card for clothes.’

  ‘And now they’ve lost Josie. But the Badger woman, the madam, said they didn’t want to stop yet. I wonder if they’ve found another girl to use.’

  ‘They’ll need another photographer, too.’

  ‘Could this Philip do the job?’

  ‘Doubtful. Anyone can point a camera, but are they professional enough to capture what’s needed on film? They’ve got to get a recognizable image of the victim with the girl, while they’re both fully active.’

  ‘Nicely put. No, I see what you mean. Probably not. May I show these to Maggie when she comes back? And are there any other known contacts?’

  ‘These prints are for you. And no, there aren’t. I don’t think Madam has come to our notice before, but we are pursuing other lines of enquiry. I’ve got men out trying to trace a girl answering to Josie’s description who moved off the streets into “something better” some time last year.’

  ‘Tell me, the girls on the streets are “owned” by different men, yes? Wouldn’t they object to losing one of their working girls?’

  ‘They wouldn’t object if the price were right.’

  Bea shivered. Souls for sale. Ugh. Perhaps Jeremy should put that into his song. Which he’d stopped playing for the moment. Hallelujah!

  The inspector had concentrated his gaze on the biscuit tin. Well, it was marked ‘Biscuits’, wasn’t it? Bea pushed it in his direction, and he opened the lid. Empty. Jeremy strikes again?

  Bea started to laugh. ‘It’s not funny, I know. It’s just that I’ll either laugh or cry, and crying is not exactly my scene.’ She opened cupboard doors, found some more packets of biscuits, refilled the tin and handed it to him. ‘Brain food?’

  ‘Ah. Dark-chocolate covered biscuits. A policeman never knows when his next meal is going to be. May I run a scenario by you? The Badgers have been a successful con gang for some time. All goes well. The money rolls in. Then suddenly the pattern is broken. One of their victims decides to fight back. We don’t know whether he paid up to begin with or not, but he warns Josie off.

  ‘First question: how did he warn her off ? We know she had a mobile phone with her, because Jeremy received a phone call from her the evening she died. No mobile phone was found on her body. We assume that the Badgers had given her a mobile phone so that she could keep in touch with them at all times, and also so that she could make arrangements during the “grooming” period to meet her victims. I’m thinking the killer took it away with him after he’d killed her.’

  ‘Because his phone number would have been listed on her mobile?’

  ‘It sounds right, doesn’t it? Second question: how did he know where to find her the night she died?’

  She stared at him. ‘The Badgers should have made her lose that phone. A big mistake to keep it. Let me think. Well, I did hear of another victim who used to visit a girl called Angie – who may or may not have been Josie – at a house in Hammersmith where she’d taken a room. He paid the price by fiddling the firm’s books and committed suicide. His son called round to tell Angie-cum-Josie about it, but by that time she’d done a flit. No, I can’t give you the name, but he exists.

  ‘They didn’t go for hotels, probably because it would have been difficult for them to get their photographer in to take pictures at the right moment. So they provided the girl with a suitable background by renting a room for her in someone else’s flat or house. Somewhere they knew they could access at any time by copying a front door key. Somewhere they could meet during the day without it being remarked. There’s masses of multiple occupancy flats and houses around here because lots of young people work in Central London but can’t afford anything better.

  ‘Suppose the killer took some precautions when he was having his wicked way with Josie. If he was technically inclined, he could put a bug into her handbag . . . or simply pretend to leave but hang around till she went out, and then follow her back to her base.

  ‘After that he could keep watch on the flat or house where the gang lives. He could find out the names of who lived in the same house easily enough. Then, when he was ready to make his move, he could ring her mobile and say he had her in his sights. That would have spooked her into running off and trying to phone Jeremy, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I like it. Next question: why Jeremy? He doesn’t fit the pattern, and yet he crops up everywhere in this investigation.’

  ‘You’re right; he doesn’t fit the pattern. I think he was set up by his wife, who was tired of him and has been seeing another man. His wife is Eunice Barrow, the barrister. She probably never met the Badgers, but knew of someone or heard of someone . . . Perhaps passed a request down the line, dangling a nice fat fee before their eyes? So much per incriminating photo. Then she sat back and waited for the proofs of his infidelity to drop through her letter box. Do you think you could spare the time to visit her, make her give up the name of her contact?’

  He scrabbled for his notebook. ‘I’ll put it on my “to do” list. Mind you, she won’t be easy to frighten. But if she started this, she deserves to be frightened, and if we can get a name or names from her, it might lead us to the Badgers. Meanwhile, I suppose you’ll continue to look after Jeremy?’

  They listened. No sound of music. Bea relaxed. ‘Peace and quiet. He’s been at it since first thing this morning, not even stopping to eat. He’ll be demanding food in a minute. I’m trying to fix him up with a minder for a couple of hours a day. You must admit, he’s lucky. It was pure chance that he went to that concert and spent the evening with someone who could give him an alibi.’

  ‘Only, the Badgers didn’t accept he was innocent, and they went after him . . . somewhat ineffectively, you must admit.’

  ‘Trashing his flat wasn’t ineffective. Causing him to lose his job wasn’t, either. I’m sure he was a good teacher because he cared about his pupils, and it hurt him to let them down just before they were due to take their exams.’

  ‘He’s so wrapped up in his music, it doesn’t seem to have upset him for long. Oh, by the way, we found a black dress shoe in the back of the white van. Just the one. I’ll bring it along when Forensics have finished with it, and you can see if it’s one of Jeremy’s. Now, can you explain the coincidence of O’Dare being killed at the very time that Jeremy is being kidnapped?’

  ‘I think you need to look at Mr Jason of Jason’s Place for that.’

  The inspector hit his forehead. ‘I called there earlier. He’s got a woman running the place today. She says it’s his day off, and she hasn’t his mobile number, which I didn’t believe, but there you are. Anyway, he was nowhere to be seen. The landlord was very much in evidence, overseeing the fitting of a new front door to the flat above. He wants me to arrest Jeremy for the damage done to his property but I told him to contact the local police, who’d give him a case number to send to his insurance people.’

  ‘I think Mr Jason may have been feeding information both to Philip, the failed actor in the Badger team, and to the killer – or his representative. I can’t think . . .’

  ‘You hesitated there. You’ve remembered something you saw?’

  ‘No. Yes. He moved . . . He moved like an athlete. He eel
ed his way out of the van and was off into the dark. Heavyset, but light on his feet.’

  ‘He works out?’

  ‘I suppose that’s it. No, it was a something and a nothing. When I opened the van door, I smelled something sweet . . . It reminded me of something, but I can’t think what.’

  A rich alto voice cut the air.

  ‘You promised me – a life of ease,

  You promised me – our love would last.

  You brought me to this country,

  Where the streets are paved with rain.

  You took my childhood from me,

  And you sold me to your friends.

  I asked how could you do this?

  And you answered – with a blow.’

  Bea shuddered, and the inspector froze with his mug half way to his mouth.

  Bea tried to laugh. ‘Someone walked over my grave.’

  ‘Did Jeremy think that up?’

  She nodded.

  ‘That’s extraordinary. I mean, to look at him . . . Who’s the voice?’

  Bea marched into the sitting room, to find Celia with Jeremy. Celia’s waist was no longer as slender as it had been in her teens and twenties, and her short, bubble-cut hair was fairer than it had been in her thirties, but Jeremy was looking at her as if she were a toothsome bundle.

  And, looking at him, Celia seemed to be in a golden daze.

  Bea said, under her breath, ‘What have I done?’

  ‘What?’ said the inspector, on her heels.

  ‘Never you mind,’ said Bea. ‘Jeremy, I see you and Celia have met.’

  Celia turned a radiant smile on them. ‘Isn’t his music wonderful? I came up to have a word with you, and he asked if I could sing, and I used to, in the old days. And he played the tune for me, and . . . Well, I hope it was all right.’

  ‘It was more than all right,’ said Jeremy, with an adoring look. ‘You picked it up so quickly. You have perfect pitch, don’t you?’

  ‘I used to have, but . . . So sorry, Mrs Abbot. I came up just for a moment, really, to say that one of the girls wants to see you before she leaves for the day. I’m afraid she’s not happy about me being in charge.’

  ‘I’m sure you know how to deal with that,’ said Jeremy.

  Bea closed her eyes. Was Jeremy metamorphosing from mouse to man before her very eyes? Beside her, she could sense that the inspector was bubbling with amusement.

  Celia blushed. Actually reddened to the roots of her only slightly bleached hair. ‘Oh well. You know how it is.’

  ‘I do,’ said Jeremy, standing up. ‘I don’t know about you, Celia, but I could do with a bite to eat. May I treat you to a steak somewhere?’

  ‘Oh, but I . . .’

  He looked down at himself. ‘If you could give me time to change? Twenty minutes all right with you?’

  Celia looked at her watch, but Bea didn’t think she really saw it. Celia was floating on cloud nine. Celia had fallen head over heels in love. Oh. Dear. Me.

  Jeremy treated Bea and the inspector to a bright smile and scurried past them. Celia followed him, with uncertain footsteps.

  Bea closed the door after them and leaned against it.

  The inspector had doubled over with laughter. ‘Heh, heh . . . hoo, hoo . . .’

  ‘All very well for you,’ said Bea, annoyed. ‘Here I was thinking of Jeremy as a wayward child, and he turns out to be a spider who’s wrapped his victim in a silken cocoon, to be taken off and devoured at his leisure.’

  ‘Hor, hor, hor . . .’ He produced a hankie and blew his nose, hard. ‘Sorry about that, but . . . heh, heh . . .’

  ‘I was hoping Celia would run the office for me for a while, and maybe put in an extra hour or so here and there to keep Jeremy’s affairs straight, but he’s going to co-opt her and take her off to his lair . . . Oh well, he hasn’t got a lair at the moment, has he? And he’s still married to Eunice. Although somehow I don’t think that’s going to stop him. Or her.’

  A jangling noise from the inspector’s pocket. ‘My phone.’ He fished it out, wiping bleary eyes with his other hand. And listened. ‘Right, I’m on to it. Meet you there. What did you say the address was . . .?’ He shut off his phone, all traces of amusement gone. ‘Another body; a woman found in a dumpster.’

  ‘Josie’s replacement?’

  He shrugged. ‘If the murderer knows where they live, he could pick them off one by one.’ He started for the front door.

  She followed him. The sun had gone behind a cloud. She cradled her arms, feeling chilled. ‘I did advise “Miss Angie Butt” to make herself scarce.’

  ‘Keep in touch, right? And don’t let any pizza delivery men into the house.’ He made his way to a parked car and drove off.

  Bea shut the front door with a bang. She considered finding a glass of red wine and a box of chocolates, and taking them off to bed. Unfortunately, she’d still got to deal with a staff problem, and then there was supper to sort out, and what did Oliver think he was doing, still stuck in her office with her computer?

  She went down the stairs, making hardly any sound in her light sandals. Celia was in the toilet, no doubt redoing her make-up; not that she wore much.

  What was the name of the big, black-haired woman who wanted to be manageress? Dahlia, that was it.

  Dahlia was trying the door of Maggie’s office, which fortunately had been locked against intruders. The rest of the staff seemed to have gone for the day.

  Bea said, ‘Maggie’s office is to be kept locked in future. You wanted to speak to me?’

  Sitting in a chair beside Dahlia’s desk was a big, loose-lipped untidy youth with a big conk, who didn’t seem able to breathe through it. Badly bleached hair, which had not been washed recently. Acne. He was wearing overlong jeans, frayed from being trodden under his heels, and a stained T-shirt. He was concentrating on playing some computer game or other.

  Bea didn’t recognize him. ‘Well, Dahlia; come into my office.’

  Dahlia displayed aggressive body language. That black hair was dyed. ‘He, your supposed son, threw us out, said it was private in your office. He was looking up porn sites, I wouldn’t wonder.’

  Oliver on porn sites? Bea blinked. ‘My adopted son? I doubt it.’ Her office was empty, but the doors to the garden stood open. Oliver must have slipped out for a minute. Bea seated herself behind her desk. Her computer had been left on, and the files they’d been dealing with earlier were still piled on to her desk. She pulled out her top drawer and started her voice recorder. ‘Now, Dahlia; what is it you wanted to speak to me about?’

  ‘You’ve no need to advertise for another manageress, or to bring in someone from outside. Save yourself some money and let me have the job. After all, I know what’s to be done better than anyone else.’

  ‘It’s standard practice to advertise when a responsible job like this becomes vacant. The advertisements have already gone in. As I said earlier, you are welcome to apply.’

  ‘Yes, but . . . the thing is, if we’re not getting the bonus we’ve been promised, it’s going to be difficult, so being made up to manageress would be very handy. And I know where the bodies are buried.’ And she winked at Bea.

  Startled, Bea said, ‘What bodies?’

  ‘I’m not blaming you for leaving so much to Ianthe, taking time off when we’re rushed off our feet. It’s only natural you want to take it easy at your age.’

  Bea tried not to grind her teeth. She knew she’d taken time out of the office for this and that over the past few months. There’d been regular visits to play with her grandson, and she’d spent time sorting out a couple of nasty crimes which had drifted her way. But the agency hadn’t suffered, had it? She’d worked early and late to keep it on track . . . until she’d made the mistake of appointing Ianthe and letting Miss Brook and Celia go.

  Dahlia hadn’t finished. ‘What I think is that you need someone who you can rely on when you need to take time off. Someone who knows what’s what around here.’

  Her tone of oi
ly satisfaction was too much for Bea. Almost, she snapped at the woman. ‘Thank you for your concern. I’ll take it on board. I hope to start interviewing next week. Now, if that’s all . . .?’

  Dahlia flushed. ‘Well, if that’s how you’re going to take my offer, which was made with your best interests at heart . . .! But no, it’s not quite all. My nephew, that’s sitting outside at the moment. You’ve put him on the blacklist. I know he didn’t do himself justice at school, what with his parents splitting up, and his getting a depression, and then there was that stupid teacher, who’d never liked him, saying he’d been up to no good with the computers in the lab, which was an outright lie . . .!’

  Bea held up a hand to stop her. ‘We have a file for him?’

  Dahlia pounced on the files and shuffled through them till she found the one she wanted. No photo. No wonder Bea hadn’t recognized the lad.

  Bea flicked through the file. Zack – save the mark! – had been sent out on three occasions as a waiter on Silver Service events. The results were a disaster. He’d turned up late, improperly dressed, been rude to the others on the team, and walked off the job without clearing up. Three separate times.

  ‘A poor report, three times.’

  Dahlia bit her lip. ‘It’s not his fault. He lacks self-confidence, having always been put down by his father, who never had a good word to say for him, and even threw him out of the house, would you believe? So I took him in, naturally, doing my good deed for the day, and he’s like my own, you understand? Not that I ever had any.’

  Bea sighed. What could she say to a lad who’d already accumulated a catalogue of disasters? ‘Let’s have him in, shall we?’ Even as she went to the door, she was aware of an altercation taking place in the big office.

  Celia was storming at the lad, who’d seated himself at one of the office computers and had accessed . . . oh, no! Some porn?

  Celia was trying to turn the computer off, and the lad was battling with her, laughing, thrusting her away.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Bea didn’t normally have to shout to get attention.