False Alarm (18 page)

Perhaps Harvey really was a dastardly mastermind and a blackmailer and thoroughly deserved to be delivered to the tender mercies of Sir Lucas's Head of Security – who sounded as if he'd graduated cum laude from the university of Torture Cells and Brain-washing.

Bea shook her head. No, she would have nothing to do with it. Besides which, Max was waiting for her and Max didn't like to be kept waiting. She got out her front door key and let herself into her house.

M
ax had actually put the kettle on. Wonderful! But it had turned itself off because there was no water in it. What else had she expected? She filled the kettle, discovered an unopened pack of chocolate digestive biscuits and made the tea, while Max talked at her. Sincerely, persuasively, deeply.

‘So you see, Mother; because the parliamentary boundary changes are going to affect my constituency in an adverse fashion, I need to look ahead, to consider my options within the party and, it goes without saying, to maximize my opportunities to connect more solidly with the very enterprises which drive Britain forward . . .'

She translated this as: I need to find another source of income, in case I lose my seat at the next election. She made the tea, poured out two mugs, added milk, pushed the biscuit tin towards him. ‘You are a very popular, hard-working politician, and loyal to the party. They won't be in any hurry to get rid of you.'

He reddened. ‘That's as may be, but I can't rely on . . . For heavens' sake, Mother; don't be so obtuse. Everyone understands that members of parliament make up their income by serving on the boards of various companies and promoting their interests. It goes without saying that I've been approached by . . . No names, no pack drill, but I didn't think that associating myself with certain . . . You understand what I'm saying? But with you, I'm on safe ground.'

Bea's phone rang, or rather shuddered, in her handbag again. She took it out and laid it on the table beside her, noting it was a repeat call. ‘Sir Lucas Ossett. Again.'

He frowned. ‘You'd better answer it, hadn't you?'

‘I don't want to speak to him.'

‘What? Mother, do you realize what you're saying? You don't refuse to take a call from Sir Lucas.'

Did he mean that
he
wouldn't refuse to take a call from Sir Lucas? ‘You know him, then?'

‘Well, yes. Of course. Everyone, that is . . . Our paths have crossed and he's been kind enough to take an interest in . . . Though I am solidly on his side in this particular—'

‘The bill that's coming up in parliament soon?'

‘You know about it? It's not supposed to be generally . . . But I suppose, the connection through his wife and Maggie . . . You've met him?'

‘Impressive. I understand his business empire is under attack.'

‘Oh, that.' Dismissive. ‘Bound to fail. The banks are solidly behind him.'

‘He's calling in favours from all sorts of people?' Like CJ? Like Max?

Another frown. ‘He has his fingers in many pies, that's true.'

Bea shivered. She could guess where this was leading. ‘In Holland and Butcher, for instance? I heard they were in trouble, financially.' She hadn't heard anything of the kind, but then she wouldn't, would she? And, judging by Max's grimace, it seemed she was right.

Max finished one biscuit and reached for another. ‘You know how it is. Old family firm, needs new blood. Out with the old and in with the new, restructure the debt, ally with a sure-fire, gilt-edged partner and hey presto! We sail off into the sunset together.'

‘The new blood being the new managing director. I haven't met him yet. Have you?'

‘Of course I have. They've asked me to go on their board of directors and I have accepted their offer, as I have the right connections to help them on the next stage of their journey.'

She put her mug down with a snap. ‘What connections? And how many days a week are you going to work for them?'

‘A few hours a week, only. And the same here at the agency.'

He'd run the agency for a short while before he got into Parliament so he knew the business. Sort of. But he hadn't been wildly successful at it because his mind had been on higher things. She was dismayed. ‘What would you do for us?'

He reddened. ‘Smooth the path between the two agencies, of course. As a director of both firms, I shall be your troubleshooter with them. And vice versa.'

She collected the empty mugs to put in the dishwasher. ‘The Abbot Agency is not a limited company, Max. We have no directors.'

‘It's about time that you got yourself organized.'

‘The agency is doing well, and it's true that our accountant has said we might consider becoming a limited company, but this is not something I can do in a hurry, or without a lot of thought. What you are suggesting – forgive me if I've misunderstood – is that I put you on the payroll of the agency to solve problems of communication with a firm to which we are not at present allied. And, problems of communication are ones I would normally deal with myself as and when they cropped up.'

‘I would be taking some of the load off you.'

‘When you got round to it, yes. Dear Max, I hear you complain all the time of the amount of work you need to do on the various committees for the Commons, and then you're up in the constituency almost every weekend and for long periods of time in recess. Would you really be able to find three or four hours a week for us, year in and year out, and the same for Holland and Butcher? Surely you'd drive yourself into the ground?'

He made as if to speak, but she put her hand on his arm to stop him. ‘Yes, I know you'd try.'

‘There needn't be so much work, and not every week. Sir Lucas said I wouldn't have to do so much. It's just that you'd have my name on your letterhead . . .'

Ah. At last, the truth. She came across Sir Lucas's slimy trail everywhere. ‘You want a sort of virtual, non-working directorship? It might impress some of our clients, I suppose, but let's look at the cost factor. The agency provides a living for me and the girls in the office. It also keeps this house going, but there's not enough fat in the budget for us to take on a part-time, non-working director.'

‘Ah, but it will be different when you merge with Holland and Butcher. That's where we're heading, isn't it? Working closely with them, you'll be able to double your turnover because there's no other agency around who can train staff
and
get them into good jobs. You'd wipe out the competition. You'd need bigger offices, of course. I can see you moving into High Street—'

‘I'll think about it.' She could hear herself turn sharp.

He looked downcast. Poor lamb, he'd always had eyes bigger than his stomach. When he was a little boy he'd dreamed of conquering the stars, but in those days he'd been prepared to put in the hours of hard graft necessary to get there. It was this very trait which had got him into the House of Commons. Ambition plus hard work plus loyalty paid off.

This development was ambition without the hard work, and she didn't see how it could possibly pay off. She put her arm around him and gave him a hug. ‘Dear Max; you are the dearest, sweetest soul, and a fine member of parliament. You are a wonderful husband and a perfectly splendid father. Forgive me for playing the devil's advocate? I want you to succeed in whatever you undertake. I promise to think about it very seriously.'

He softened. ‘Don't take too long, right?'

Her phone shuddered again. This time she picked it up, more to bring an end to the conversation with Max than because she wanted to get more orders from Sir Lucas Ossett.

It wasn't Sir Lucas.

It was Maggie, in a state; half laughing, half crying. ‘Are you there? Oliver said you were using your old mobile and . . . Oh, this is so awful, and I don't know why I'm laughing, but . . . Go away, Oliver!'

Oliver must be hovering nearby. ‘Let me!' Oliver's voice came on the phone. ‘Look, it's nothing, really. Nothing to get in a state about, and really no need for you to come over.'

Maggie interrupted. Presumably, they were snatching the phone from one to the other. ‘Can you come, though? I'm so afraid he's going to get stuck. He's far too fat to get out through the kitchen window.'

Oliver: ‘Such a fuss about nothing. I told him Sir Lucas would want to speak to him and he said he had an important engagement somewhere, which I didn't believe, so the caretaker . . . Well, all right, it was a bit high-handed but—'

‘Use your own phone!' That was Maggie, screaming.

Bea said, ‘Calm down, both of you. One of you hold the phone between you, and take it in turns to talk. Maggie; you think I ought to come . . . where? To your mother's flat?'

‘Yes. Well, downstairs a bit. Flat six.'

‘That's the MI5 bloke?'

Maggie giggled. ‘Oh, I know he talks as if he's in the Secret Service, but honestly!'

Oliver, shouting; ‘He didn't deny it.'

Bea broke in. ‘So what's the problem?'

Oliver said, ‘He's got himself locked in.'

Maggie, gritting her teeth. ‘Oliver told him to stay put. He said he had to go out. The caretaker lifted Harvey's keys off him and locked him into his own flat, front and back. Now he can't get out. He's raising Cain, crying and shouting for help out of the window. Half the neighbourhood is out there, and some want to call the police.'

Oliver shouted, ‘He's only got to wait till the security man comes for him from Head Office.'

Bea put her hand to her forehead. ‘Oliver, you can't detain the man against his will! Go and talk to the caretaker. Get him to give the man his keys back.'

Silence.

Maggie said, ‘That's the problem. We can't find him.'

A shiver ran up and down Bea's back. She felt behind her for a stool and sat down. ‘“Can't find him”? As in . . . he's missing?'

Oliver sounded uneasy for the first time. ‘He's not in his flat, or working on the cars, or anywhere in the basement. I expect he's popped out for something. He'll be back in a minute.'

Maggie was scornful. ‘It's been over half an hour.'

Bea was thinking hard. ‘Have you tried his mobile phone?'

‘Yes. No service.'

Not good news. Bea said, ‘Look; is the lift working? He's not in that, is he?'

‘Why would he be in there?'

‘No.' That was Oliver. ‘It brought a couple up—'

‘Helen and her husband,' said Maggie.

‘A few minutes ago, and there's an older lady—'

‘Carrie Kempton, stupid!'

‘Shut up, Maggie. She's getting out of the lift now. Her partner in crime—'

‘Lucy Emerson, idiot!'

‘—has stayed outside on the balcony, trying to keep him calm, talking to him through his kitchen window. They can go down the fire escape at the back and—'

Bea said, ‘Yes, I know about that.'

Oliver again. ‘The old lady, Mrs Emerson, is just saying . . . Hold on a mo . . . No, she says no matter how hard he tries, he can't get out through the kitchen window, which isn't surprising, and . . . Oh, he's hurt himself, is that right? Cut himself? She says the whole street can hear him, and someone's bound to call the police. Maggie; tell her, no police!'

Bea looked at her watch. How long would it take her to get there? ‘What about your mother, or the Professor? Could they sort it?'

‘They're out.'

‘Could Carmela help?' said Bea. ‘She's opposite him, isn't she? She could talk to him from their shared balcony.'

‘Also out, we think. We've rung her doorbell but—'

‘I expect she's got someone with her.' That was Maggie. ‘She works in the late afternoons, you know.'

Bea knew. ‘Listen; Maggie, Oliver. Are the decorators still working up top? They might have tools—'

Maggie said, ‘It's the weekend. They're not working today. Do you think we should break the door down? Hang on a mo. Someone else has come up.'

A babble of voices. A woman's; Helen McIntyre? A tenor; her husband?

Oliver and an alto; Mrs Emerson?

Maggie again, hard breathing. ‘It's the youngsters from the ground floor flat. They want to search the building. The caretaker must be in one of the other flats, doing something to . . . oh, I don't know. The drains or something.' A hysterical giggle. ‘I just hope Harvey doesn't bleed to death before they can get him out.'

Bea reached a long arm for her handbag, shrugging on her coat, holding the phone first with one hand and then the other. ‘I'm on my way. Have someone ready to let me into the building.'

Her son Max was getting cross, wanting her to resume her conversation with him. ‘Mother, we need to talk. It's urgent.'

She switched off her phone, dropped it in her handbag. ‘It may be urgent for you, but it's important for them. There's a problem at Sir Lucas's flats, and maybe I can knock some sense into their heads. Can you give me a lift?'

Max dropped Bea off outside the flats. Bea was relieved to see there was no sign of the police, the fire brigade, or the Samaritans. No gawking pedestrians, either. The problem so far had been confined to the flats.

A man was waiting at the front door to admit her; not the shaven-headed Connor. Not Oliver. A stranger in his forties, dark-hair receding, pallid skin, sloping shoulders in a designer jumper, bespoke jeans, brogues. An off-duty banker?

He held out his hand. ‘Mrs Abbot? Eliot McIntyre. You met my wife earlier. We've been through the whole building, talked to everyone who's in, searched the basement quarters and the garage below, but there's no sign of the caretaker or his keys. Harvey's quiet enough at the moment. We're taking it in turns to be with him. Helen's just taken him up a cup of tea, though I told her she should be resting. Maggie says you can sort it, but I'm only giving it fifteen more minutes before we call the police.'