False Wall

by Veronica Heley

  Leon narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Are you not feeling up to it?’

  ‘I’m thinking: piranhas, sharks and vultures.’

  ‘Agreed. We’ll leave the moment you’ve had enough.’

  A large man – a bouncer? no, no; surely not! – checked that their names were on the guest list, and they were ushered through into a spacious hall. Bea’s hall was a mere corridor compared to this. Black-and-white tiled floor, chandelier; broad oak staircase straight ahead. Half-open doors allowed glimpses of a library and a dining room on the left before they were ushered into a huge sitting room on the right. This room ran from the front of the house to the back. Another chandelier – no, two. Furniture and furnishings were out of Homes & Gardens, all in pastel colours. Slightly grubby? A stain or two on the matching settees?

  A few easy steps down into the garden, and they were out into the marquee which had been dressed with roof and side canvas panels to turn it into a giant tent.

  Trays of drinks were offered. A not particularly good Prosecco. Nibbles had been turned out of packets into large bowls. Food and drink were by courtesy of the nearest supermarket.

  The waiters and waitresses, however, were by silver service. Bea recognized the head waiter and a waitress who had used her agency in the past. The man – what was his name? – was currently off her books because …? She’d had a sharp word with him about something, she couldn’t remember what for the moment. He hadn’t taken it well.

  They arrived in front of their host, the Admiral; spare as to figure and sharp as to nose, retired but still going strong. He had an expensively cultivated Imperial beard, very pale blue eyes and the air of one accustomed to getting his own way. A bully?

  The Admiral looked Bea up and down, dismissing her as unimportant. ‘So glad you could both come. My wife’s somewhere … Sir Leon, have you met …?’

  Leon was passed on to a sleek, expensively dressed man with more paunch than hair, while his free arm was commandeered by … No, this girl was not one of the usual lovelies with false eyelashes, hair extensions and amplified bosoms, who hung around such parties hoping to attract a free-spending protector – Bea noted that several of those were dotted around the room. For hire? None of them were wearing much in the way of clothes, and what they did have on looked as if it would come off in a trice – no, this girl stood out from the crowd.

  Bea didn’t need the Admiral to say: ‘… And this is my granddaughter, Venetia.’ The very pale blue eyes and platinum-blonde hair of the girl, allied to a sharp nose, gave Venetia’s bloodline away, but she had something the Admiral lacked. She had sex appeal. And, although she was fashionably dressed in an outfit which left little to the imagination, she had not darkened her eyelashes and eyebrows, which in itself was a statement of nonconformity. This girl was not trying to make herself look like everyone else’s idea of beauty: she was a personality in her own right.

  Just like her grandfather, Venetia looked Bea up and down, and mentally wrote her off as she turned back to Leon. ‘Oh, I have been so looking forward …’

  A cut-glass, high voice.

  Bea’s elbow was taken by the Admiral, who moved her around to introduce her to another of his fruity-voiced businessmen. This one wasn’t interested in her, either. His eyes skittered around, looking for someone more important than Bea to talk to. Within two minutes, he’d stepped away to speak to someone else, and Bea was left on her own.

  Leon had disappeared.

  Bea spotted a face she knew, that of a long-time client, but before she could make a move, she was swept aside by an influx of newcomers. The hubbub was intense. Some tables had been put out, covered with paper cloths and drinks, but there wasn’t a chair to be seen. The marquee was crowded. Probably chairs would have taken up too much room.

  Muzak, courtesy of a ghetto blaster. A trifle on the loud side. A couple of lively young men were in charge of the Muzak. Noisily laughing. Drinking hard. Leon had said that several generations lived in this house. Bea wondered whether these two also belonged to the Admiral’s family? Neither of them had the pale blue eyes and platinum-blonde hair of his granddaughter, but they had the same air of … what was the word …? Entitlement. That was it. They considered themselves special because of their birth and upbringing. Didn’t they used to be called Hooray Henries? Most apt. They were both older than the lad who’d brought about the Fall of the Wall.

  The sun beat down on the marquee. Bea had not really recovered from inhaling so much brick dust yesterday, and felt slightly sick.

  A big-boned woman, who probably starved herself to get into her expensive silk dress – from Harrods? – extended her hand to Bea. Diamonds flashed. ‘I’m Lady Payne, your hostess. Call me Edith.’

  ‘Bea Abbot, from the next road.’

  The woman bared perfect teeth in a social smile. ‘It was your wall that brought ours down, right?’ A superb haircut and tint; one if not two face-lifts; diamonds round her neck; a tan which had not come out of a bottle but which had done some damage to the skin of her chest. Her handbag would be by Mulberry, wouldn’t it?

  Bea said, ‘Not quite.’ The heat was getting to her.

  Edith’s smile lost its warmth and the ends of her mouth turned down. ‘I gather you work, don’t you? Some kind of agency? My husband thinks you’re letting the side down by running a commercial proposition in this exclusive part of the world. He’s going to raise the matter at the next Council Meeting.’

  All Bea wanted to do was to go home and lie down, but Leon needed some information, so she made an effort to be civil. ‘The agency was started by my husband’s aunts long before either of us was born. We have all the permissions we need to be there.’

  A shrug. ‘I suppose you’ll also say your wall was in perfect condition before it tumbled down.’ A smile that looked genuine again. ‘Ah well, I suppose we ought not to discuss it in case we get quoted by the lawyers or the press.’

  A charm offensive. One that worked. Bea said, ‘No, best not.’

  Edith said, ‘You look a little pale. Are you all right?’

  Bea put a hand to her head. ‘I’m afraid the heat is getting to me. I swallowed too much dust yesterday and it’s knocked me out, rather. Is there anywhere I might sit down?’

  ‘Come inside.’ Edith led the way down some unobtrusive steps at the back of the house and through French windows into a basement flat. She closed the doors behind them. Oh, what bliss! The Muzak dwindled to a mere rumble. The room faced north and in winter you would probably have to turn lights on, but in high summer it was pleasantly dim. There were William Morris covers on furniture which must have been handed down through a couple of generations, shelves of paperback books on either side of a blocked-off fireplace, and a free-standing heater which would supplement the central heating in winter.

  The paintwork was chipped and the carpet worn but, all in all, it was a pleasant room. There was a Radio Times beside a small television set, fresh flowers in a cut-glass vase, and a bundle of knitting on a coffee table. This was the nest of someone who had no intention of keeping up with the Joneses.

  Edith said, ‘Take a seat. I was just thinking about a nice, cold fruit juice to drink. How about you?’

  ‘You’re very kind. Yes, I would, indeed.’ Bea wondered if this offer to her of a non-alcoholic drink at a party meant that she was showing her age, and thought she probably was. What a tiresome thought. Had she gone from being a femme fatale to Old Age Pensioner in a day? She sank into a chair, abandoning her glass of wine.

  Edith bustled about in an adjoining, old-fashioned, but practical kitchen.

  Bea pulled herself together. It was time to tap Edith about the house next door. ‘It’s been quite a day. Have you had the police round about the bones they found next door?’

  ‘Indeed. I felt sorry for that young policewoman, having to cart around all that equipment in this heat.’

  They’d met the same policewoman. ‘Me, too,’ said Bea, relaxing. ‘I’ve lived in the next road for forty
years, give or take. It’s the first time I can recall a body turning up in the area. Or of being invited into a house in this street. We Londoners tend to keep ourselves to ourselves, don’t we?’

  Edith placed a glass of juice on the coffee table in front of Bea. ‘I suppose we’ve been here about the same length of time. Between postings abroad.’

  ‘Do you remember the people who used to live next door?’

  Edith took her own glass to sit on a chair with a rug draped over one arm – for use on chilly evenings? – and smoothed her skirt over her knees. The skirt was fashionably short, revealing knees which were not Edith’s best features. She was wearing a chunky gold bracelet in addition to a large number of rings. A superfluity of bling? Making a point? The cold drink was delicious, though Bea wasn’t sure what was in it. A mixture of different fruits? Something with a kick in it.

  ‘Yes, but they were a good bit older than us and didn’t have any children, so we didn’t socialize much. I remember their dogs were an awful nuisance, barking all the time when they went out for the day, but if our kiddywinks raised their voices in the garden, we heard all about it. Ah well. Time passes.’

  ‘You knew them quite well at one time?’

  A shrug. ‘Just to say the occasional “hello” in the street, and chat about the weather. I remember she had some funny ideas about germs. If we came back from anywhere in the Caribbean or the Southern Hemisphere, she’d say she was afraid we were going to go down with malaria and give it to her. Very odd.’

  Bea sipped some more juice. Most refreshing. She must ask for the recipe some time. ‘They buried the dogs in their garden when they died?’

  ‘We never had any pets, moving around the world as we did. In the old days it was thought perfectly all right to bury your pets in the garden. I don’t suppose it would be allowed nowadays. Health and Safety, you know. She went a bit strange after the dogs died and her husband was lost at sea. Alzheimer’s, poor thing. Didn’t know what day of the week it was. That’s why she had to sell up. Had to go into a home somewhere. Tragic, really. I suppose the human bones – if they are human – were put there long before her time and we’ll never know who they belonged to.’

  ‘Do we know if it’s a man or a woman?’ She saw that Edith was watching her every move. Why?

  ‘I’ve no idea. It must have happened long before our time.’

  There was a tin with a picture of two kittens on the lid on the coffee table. Bea had an inexplicable desire to laugh. Kittens. Too, too cute!

  As – now she came to think of it – was dear Edith, who definitely didn’t belong in this slightly out-of-date room. Edith was Mrs Admiral, and belonged upstairs in those pastel and cream rooms with the enormous television set over the Adam-style fireplace, with hefty, glass-topped coffee tables placed in front of matching settees, no books, and an orchid in the window.

  And yet Edith had behaved as if she had every right to commandeer this flat. Perhaps this was the lair of the off-duty Admiral, who liked to be quiet and comfortable in the evenings?

  Bea took another mouthful of the drink. It might, perhaps, have some brandy or perhaps vodka in it? No doubt Edith had added something to the juice to relax her visitor. With the best of intentions?

  Or, possibly, not.

  Was Edith, perhaps, not the innocent and helpful hostess that she was pretending to be? Why, for instance, had she abandoned her guests to attend to Bea? Was it to give her husband time to talk to Leon about business without interference? Or to allow their grandchild to vamp Leon?

  Bea felt her eyes close. She felt the almost empty glass lifted from her hands and heard the ‘clink’ as it was set down on the table.

  ‘That’s it! Put your feet up. Have a little nap.’

  Her feet were lifted up and set on something … the coffee table? A stool? Her shoes were eased off.

  Bea wanted to resist. She wasn’t a baby to be put to bed for a nap in the middle of the day … Or whenever it was. But it was true that she was slipping away into sleep …

  She tried to fight it. She could hear sounds, people coming into the room, talking, several voices. Men’s voices. Not the Admiral’s. Talking over her head. She nestled back into the deep armchair in which she was sitting. Ah, that was better …

  Her purse was removed from under her arm. Good. It had been digging into her side. A tiny thought wormed its way round from the back of her head and insisted on being considered. She’d been drugged.

  No. Really?

  Yes.

  But … why?

  Could it be something to do with the fall of the wall? Had Bea been led into a situation in which she might say something to incriminate herself, perhaps to admit that the fall of the wall had been her fault? No, that didn’t make sense.

  A confusion of sound, people moving around, talking to one another … Something heavy being dragged across the floor.

  A strong light was switched on. Really bright. Bea tried to protest, tried to lift her heavy eyelids. Failed.

  She felt her skirt being lifted above her knees and something cold and wet splashed upon her top. Something that stank of gin. She didn’t like gin.

  A sharp voice. A man’s. ‘Where’s her purse? I could look around …’

  A girl’s voice, high and sharp. ‘He’s out for the count, but …’

  A sound, as of something being thrown … and caught. A ball? What ball? She couldn’t make sense of it.

  A hand messed her hair and smeared her mouth. Bea wanted to resist. Couldn’t.

  The woman said, ‘Hurry up. I don’t know how long she’ll be out for …’ The voice faded.

  Bea was drifting … one part of her mind tried to process what was happening …

  Her arm was lifted, held in the air and dropped.

  The light went off with a ‘ping’.

  Good. It was pleasant in the dark.

  A man’s voice. ‘What the—!’

  The woman, angry. ‘I told you not to bother bringing in an extra light. Now look what you’ve done! Blown a fuse!’

  ‘The overhead light will do!’ Click, click. No light.

  ‘Don’t tell me!’ Really angry. ‘You’ve blown the whole system! Now what do we do?’

  ‘Don’t fuss. I’ll replace the fuse!’

  ‘You don’t even know what a fuse looks like!’

  More bad language. Retreating voices …

  Now! Bea commanded her body to obey her. Managed to prise her eyelids open.

  Bleary-eyed. Semi-darkness. No lights.

  She looked down. Her top was soaked. Her skirt was up around her waist. Her shoes were missing. So was her purse. And her watch. No mobile phone, no keys!

  She’d been set up for something … not sure what … Danger! She had to get out of there!

  She staggered to the French windows and fumbled for the catch. Could she make it up the steps and into the marquee, looking like …

  She drew in her breath. She’d been set up to be raped. Or just to be shown as having passed out from drink?

  Why?

  She couldn’t think straight. She must find Leon and …

  A fearful thought. If she’d been set up, then what about Leon?

  The same thing? What was it someone had said about him not being out for long? Or her? Or too long? Or … She couldn’t think straight.

  She staggered to the inner doorway and hung onto the frame. She was looking down a corridor which led from the back to the front of the house. Light trickled through transom windows over some of the doors that led off the passage, but some were dark. She felt her way along to the front of the house, coming across a bathroom and toilet, a couple of cupboards, a bedroom which must look out onto the road and a very solid door which must lead up to the street. She tried the door, but it had been double-locked. So near and yet so far. She set her back against it.

  If she couldn’t get out that way, she must try another. There was no sign of anyone on this floor.

  She worked her way back do
wn the other side of the corridor. A couple of closed doors, locked. Storerooms? Then a door gaping on to darkness, and beyond it, hurray! A staircase leading up to the ground floor and the light. These stairs were not as imposing as the ones above. Domestic staff, stairs for the use of. This basement flat would once have been the kitchens, larders and laundry areas for the servants.

  The staff had lived in a windowless, twilight area. Bea ran her hand over the wall nearby, found a light switch and clicked it on. Nothing happened. The power to the whole house was off? Maybe they’d have to get an electrician? It gave her a chance to escape and find Leon. But … how?

  She couldn’t walk into the party looking as she did. They’d think she was drunk, although she wasn’t. They’d call the police to remove her. The police? Yes, it would be good to contact the police. But how?

  Find Leon.

  She pulled herself up the stairs to the ground floor. The bouncer – if that is what he was – still occupied the hall. He had his back to her. If he saw her, he’d no doubt summon Mrs Admiral and her male accomplices. How could she get past him to the open air? And if she did … no keys, no mobile phone, no shoes … where would she go?

  Panic. Where could Leon be?

  Furious voices came from the room to her right. Kitchen quarters? Arguing about fuses? Not having much luck with them?

  The main flight of stairs beckoned her upwards. Polished wood. No carpets. Bea crept up them to the first floor. If she could find a landline, she could summon the police.

  No landline. Well-furnished rooms, somewhat sterile. A study. A master bedroom, large, en suite. Beyond that were two smaller bedrooms, one of which had a small en suite and the other a shower cubicle and washbasin fitted rather awkwardly into a corner.

  Could she tell by the contents who lived here? Mm. On the dressing table in the master bedroom were silver-framed photographs of the Admiral in dress uniform, of his wife in a large hat, and various people whom Bea assumed were relatives.