False Wall

by Veronica Heley

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Veronica Heley From Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Recent Titles by Veronica Heley from Severn House

  The Ellie Quicke Mysteries

  MURDER BY COMMITTEE

  MURDER BY BICYCLE

  MURDER OF IDENTITY

  MURDER IN HOUSE

  MURDER BY MISTAKE

  MURDER MY NEIGHBOUR

  MURDER IN MIND

  MURDER WITH MERCY

  MURDER IN TIME

  MURDER BY SUSPICION

  The Bea Abbot Agency Mysteries

  FALSE CHARITY

  FALSE PICTURE

  FALSE STEP

  FALSE PRETENCES

  FALSE MONEY

  FALSE REPORT

  FALSE ALARM

  FALSE DIAMOND

  FALSE IMPRESSION

  FALSE WALL

  FALSE WALL

  A Bea Abbot Agency Mystery

  Veronica Heley

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2016

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published 2016 in Great

  Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2016 by Veronica Heley.

  The right of Veronica Heley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Heley, Veronica author.

  False wall. – (An Abbot Agency mystery)

  1. Abbot, Bea (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 2. Women

  private investigators–England–London–Fiction.

  3. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9’14-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8576-0 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-684-8 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-740-0 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  ONE

  Bea Abbot ran a domestic agency from her London home. She was accustomed to sorting out other people’s problems, but when she herself came under fire, it was her turn to call for help.

  Friday, early afternoon

  She didn’t even have time to scream.

  The sun had made her office unbearably hot so she opened the French windows and stepped out into the garden, intending to get a chair out of the shed and have her lunch in the shade of the sycamore tree.

  Her eye was caught by a movement on top of the wall at the end of her garden. Because of the slope on which these rows of terraced houses were built, the plots did not dovetail exactly, and Bea’s wall was shared with not one but two other gardens.

  Someone was up a ladder on a neighbour’s wall, tackling the ivy. Bea did not care for ivy and cut it back when it strayed into her space, but some of her neighbours had allowed clumps of it to dangle from their walls.

  The waving strands of ivy disappeared.

  A brick tottered and fell into her garden from the top of the wall.

  Another followed … and another, creating a V-shaped gap in the top of the wall.

  What …?

  The house opposite her to the left had recently been bought by her friend Leon. It was surrounded by scaffolding, and workmen were swarming all over it. One of these men shouted the warning.

  Too late!

  Bea didn’t even have time to scream.

  She watched in horror as cracks appeared, working their way along the wall, travelling faster and faster … unstoppable.

  The section between the gardens bellied towards her and flexed.

  The Georgians had known how to build for the future. Their cream-painted terraces and red-brick walls had survived three centuries and two world wars, only for the result of their labours to be brought down through the carelessness of a jobbing gardener.

  One moment the wall at the bottom of her garden was there …

  … and the next, it was not.

  It thundered down, bricks slipping, crashing, sliding, in a tangle of ivy … taking the man on the ladder down with it.

  The wall fell on to the sycamore tree at the end of Bea’s garden, shaking it to its roots.

  A cloud of dust rose …

  Bea was reminded, crazily, that when Joshua had fought the battle of Jericho, the walls had come tumbling down.

  Pigeons crashed through the branches of the tree, escaping as it fell.

  Bea tried to scream. Between one breath and the next she realized that if the sycamore tree were to fall, its topmost branches might crash into her house.

  Or annihilate her, where she stood in the doorway?

  She didn’t have time to move.

  The tree shuddered, and slowly … so slowly … she couldn’t take her eyes off it … the tree toppled over into her garden. Towards her. Blocking out the sky.

  There was a thumping crash as the tree settled down into her paved garden, bouncing, and then flattening everything beneath its weight.

  The topmost leaves brushed her skirt.

  A cloud of red dust bellied up, hiding the sun. It reached her, overwhelmed her. She inhaled dust and choked, hands over eyes and mouth. Tasting dirt. Blinking to clear her sight.

  The rumbling died away.

  Coughing, Bea wiped dust from her eyes and looked up. Someone pulled at her elbow, trying to drag her back into the house.

  ‘Oh! Oh! What!’ Carrie, her office manageress, at a loss for words. ‘Shall I ring the police?’

  Bea couldn’t look away. Where there had been a peaceful garden, there was now nothing but tree. Branches, leaves, tree trunk. Her garden shed was under that somewhere. And the huge stone pots which she’d lovingly planted up with summer bedding plants.

  The tree had fallen straight down towards the house, grazing the garden walls on either side.

  She coughed. Tried to catch her breath. Through bleary eyes, she looked up and up through the topmost branches of the tree. The spire of the church, which stood a couple of roads down the hill, seemed much closer than before.

  The tree hid her view of Leon’s house opposite
.

  Shock.

  Someone was screaming. Several voices were shouting.

  Still coughing, she tried to straighten up.

  The man on the ladder. Was he all right? Had he been killed when the wall fell? She wiped her eyes, trying to see. Coughing.

  She couldn’t seem to get her breath. She couldn’t see straight. Her eyes were streaming.

  ‘Police!’ Carrie was on her phone.

  Bea wanted to say, ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ But couldn’t get the words out. She tried to work some moisture into her mouth. Wiped her eyes. Dust, all is dust. From dust we came, to dust we will return. She croaked and coughed, convulsively. ‘Fire … brigade.’

  Carrie had caught on. ‘Fire Brigade, please. And, possibly, an ambulance.’

  Lots more shouting from the houses opposite. Houses, of which she normally could only see the roofs – and that only here and there. Now all she could see was the tree.

  Presumably there had been some casualties? Luckily not on her side of the wall. No one had been sitting outside in her garden at that moment, although she had planned to do just that. Just as well the wall hadn’t fallen then.

  Her eyelids were gritty. She lifted her hands. They were red. A fine dust had settled on her hands and arms and skirt and legs.

  She felt herself begin to shake and, coughing, reached for something, anything, to hold on to.

  A growling red fury of an animal shot between her legs and into her office. Winston, her cat? Her long-haired black cat? No longer black.

  She tried to say, ‘I need to sit down.’ And only managed to cough harder. Her eyes were sore, eyelids gritty. Where was her box of tissues when she needed it?

  She could hear Carrie on the phone, her voice high-pitched, reporting what had happened. Excited voices behind her … the news had reached her office staff and they were crowding into her office from the main room, to see the catastrophe for themselves.

  Still coughing, Bea fumbled her way to her chair and let herself down into it. Tissues. And, she needed water. Her throat was raw. She couldn’t stop coughing, wheezing …

  Leon had wanted to cut a doorway through the wall between their two gardens. She’d not particularly liked the plan. She wasn’t sure that she wanted him invading her space as and when he wished. Perhaps he’d been pushing too hard for a permanent place in her life?

  Well, now the wall was down, there’d be no need to cut a doorway to link the two gardens because the only obstacle to negotiate would be a pile of rubble. He would have to take care that he didn’t twist an ankle clambering over that, of course. And then the tree would be in his way.

  What ridiculous things you think of when you’re in shock!

  ‘I’ve alerted the police and the fire brigade.’ Carrie, bending over her. ‘And an ambulance. Are you all right?’

  She shook her head. No, she was not all right. She wanted to say, ‘People shouldn’t employ gardeners who don’t know what they’re doing.’ What she did say, or rather croak, was, ‘Water …?’ And even that brought on more coughing. Her eyelids were inflamed.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Carrie, lifting Bea to her feet. ‘I’ll deal with everything. How about a good wash and brush-up … perhaps a change of clothes? And then a nice cup of tea, don’t you think?’

  Bea wanted to say, ‘Don’t baby me!’ But didn’t. Shock, of course. She tried to speak. Could only whisper. ‘Get … photos! Everything! Me, as well.’

  ‘Understood.’ Carrie had a smartphone, and took some of Bea, covered with dirt, before starting to photograph the tree in the garden. Bea made her way into the main office, through the shocked faces of the rest of her staff. She stopped in the middle of the room. ‘Winston? The cat?’ A hoarse whisper.

  Someone said, ‘He’s hiding in the stationery cupboard.’

  Bea nodded. ‘Needs … brush!’ If he was allowed to groom himself, he would ingest too much dust. One of the brightest of her girls dived into the cupboard for the cat.

  Good girl, thought Bea. Worth watching. With a lunge, she made it to the door of the downstairs cloakroom.

  Someone shouted, ‘Tea for Mrs Abbot! Now!’

  From the cupboard, ‘Ouch! He scratched me!’

  Carrie yelled to her staff, ‘Answer the phones, why don’t you?’ Which indeed they hadn’t. Three of their phones were ringing. The girls scrambled back to their places.

  Bea turned on the cold tap. Gushing water. Lovely. Scoop into mouth. Rinse and spit. Again. Her eyes were raw, her throat was raw. More liquid. Splash water on face. Hands red with dust.

  Face. She glanced up at the mirror and shuddered.

  She looked as if she’d tried to paint her face red and then stood out in the rain. Ugh.

  She needed a shower and a change of clothes. And a good sit down. She couldn’t see properly. Her eyelids were puffing up, and her throat …

  Don’t think about her lovely garden. Aaargh! Her lovely, lovely garden.

  All right, so it was lucky the tree hadn’t fallen on her when she’d been sitting outside, but …

  She was overtaken by a surge of rage.

  How dared they! HOW DARED THEY!

  She wanted to scream but didn’t, because she was afraid it would hurt her throat. She wanted to hit something, hard. It would relieve her feelings. Except that she was too weak to lift her hand to her face.

  Of course, she could always have a crying fit. Floods of tears might wash some of the dust out of her eyes. When she had recovered she was going to go round and give that neighbour hell!

  She checked the smartphone in her pocket. No messages. Leon was due to return to London today from … wherever it was that a multibillionaire went to talk to people about money. He was supposed to be taking her out for a meal this evening. He would not be pleased to hear about his wall. No doubt one of his workmen would even now be trying to contact him by phone. Did they allow phone messages on planes? Probably not while taking off and landing. So, if he were still in the air, there’d be a flock of messages waiting for him when he landed. For the moment, she wouldn’t try to contact him.

  Carrie opened the door and thrust a mug of tea at Bea, who nodded thanks and took it. She leaned against the wall with her eyes closed, and forced herself to drink the tea, which was heavily sugared and tasted horrible.

  Carrie’s arm came round the door again, offering a bag of lemon-flavoured sweets. Bea took the bag, fumbled her way through a wrapping and put the sweet into her mouth. Bliss.

  She sucked the sweet, and sipped the tea. Presently she felt strong enough to unstick herself from the wall and rejoin humanity. She wasn’t going to get a headache, was she?

  Ignore the symptoms. Rise above it!

  The girls were all back at their stations, answering phone calls, consulting computers. Concerned faces turned to her. She tried to smile, and knew she’d only managed a grimace.

  The bright young girl had Winston on her desk, and was brushing dust off his coat. He’d scratched her, of course. The girl had a plaster on two fingers, but would survive. Winston was lashing his tail, but he must have understood that she meant him no harm, and was allowing himself to be groomed.

  Carrie bustled forward. ‘The police are on their way. I’ve organized someone to take photos of the damage. We’ve tried to get through to the bottom of the garden, but it’s not possible.’

  Bea whispered, ‘Police … know … who?’

  ‘No one’s been round from Them Over There.’ Carrie tipped her head, meaning the neighbour who’d caused the problem. I’m trying to find out who owns the place.’

  Bea nodded. ‘Good.’ She gestured upstairs. ‘I’ll shower. Change.’ She avoided looking through the open door of her office to the mess beyond. ‘Any questions?’

  Carrie looked around. Everything seemed to be normal. In the agency, anyway. ‘We can cope. I’ll come up with you, shall I?’

  Bea shook her head, and hauled herself up the flight of stairs to the reception rooms on the ground floor. Be
cause of the slope on which the house was built, there was a short flight of stairs down from the street at the front, leading into the basement, which was where the agency was located. At the back of the house Bea’s office led directly out into the garden. A circular iron stair curled up the back of the house from the ground to the kitchen and sitting room on the first floor.

  Bea paused when she reached her living quarters. Because it was such a lovely warm day, the windows in the reception rooms, both front and back, had been left open; but, most fortunately, she’d drawn the blinds down at the back of the house to keep the rooms cool. So, the dust wasn’t too bad up there.

  Courage! Her bedroom, dressing room and en suite were one more flight of stairs up. She could make it! Of course she could. She held on to the banister and hauled her way up to her bedroom. She told herself that she was suffering from shock and that’s why she felt so weak. She wondered how soon she’d be too decrepit to climb the stairs in her house. Would a stairlift look incongruous in these big, well-proportioned rooms?

  She could still taste the dust. She realized it lingered in suspension in the air. Her eyelids were red and swollen.

  She showered and dressed in clean clothes; a cool grey, short-sleeved silk top and a linen skirt in almost the same hue. She tidied her hair and attended to her makeup but couldn’t do anything about her eyes. The lids looked and felt raw. Every now and then she blew her nose but it didn’t seem to help. She was definitely getting a headache.

  Did she feel strong enough to look out of the window? Because of the slope, her bedroom was two storeys above her garden, and she could now look down over the tree and get a better idea of the devastation below.

  As she’d feared, her poor garden had come off worse than the others. Some of Bea’s neighbours had called in designers to create mini-Chelsea Show gardens for them. Leon’s garden had been neglected so long that it could hardly have been made worse by the catastrophe. True, trenches had been excavated here and there … something to do with the utilities? Oh yes, and the previous owner had buried her dogs there, hadn’t she? Their bones were being removed as and when the builders had come across them.