False Alarm (23 page)

‘Good on you,' said the girl and, while Oliver summoned the lift, she ushered Bea into her flat.

The air still stank of cigarettes, but some attempt had been made to clean the place up, and it was now possible to sit on two of the easy chairs. An old war film was playing on the television with appropriate bangs, whizzes and crashes. Connor was lying on the settee with his feet up, a can of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

The girl pushed his feet off the arm of the settee as she passed. ‘Shove up, Connor. We have a visitor.' And to Bea, ‘Take a seat. Want a coffee or something?'

Bea sat, hoping the stain on the upholstery was dry, and laid down the bottle of wine and the bag into which she'd put Evonne's slippers. ‘Coffee would be great. It was very kind of you to lend me your slippers. I don't know how I'd have got home without them. I hope you like the wine.'

‘Well, thanks. Did they find out who killed the cat?'

‘I haven't heard.' Which was true. Bea wondered if Momi's body had been disposed of yet, and if the Professor had decided to have another cat or not. And, thinking of what she'd heard about the Professor, whether or not his daughter was in favour of his friendship with Lady O.

Connor turned the sound on the television up.

The girl backhanded him. ‘Give it a rest.'

Connor protested, ‘It's my television.'

‘It's my flat.'

Bea said to the girl, ‘I really would like a cup of coffee, if possible. I seem to have missed lunch.'

‘Coming up.'

Bea followed the girl out to the kitchen. ‘Evonne, I wanted a word in private. Did you think it was Connor who'd put your name on the call-girl cards? Ah, you did, didn't you? I couldn't think up any other reason why you didn't call the police.'

The girl switched on the kettle, her back to Bea. And didn't respond.

‘It wasn't him,' said Bea.

The girl said, ‘Biscuits? We might have some, if that slug outside hasn't scoffed the lot.'

‘You thought he'd set it up to impress you, so that he could appear as your knight in shining armour and rescue you when prospective clients appeared? I noticed you weren't displeased when he got beaten up by your visitor on Friday.'

‘I was beaten up as well.'

‘I saw. And Connor tried to defend you. He really did try to defend you, without any ulterior motive. May I ask what's gone wrong between you two?'

‘None of your business.'

‘True. I believe someone else in this building made a pass at you. Right or wrong?'

A shrug. ‘Well, yes; but it wasn't anything serious, you know.'

‘Donald; from the flat immediately above you.'

A look of surprise. ‘How did you know? Did you say you wanted tea or coffee?'

‘Either. It was only ever likely to be someone in the flats because the person concerned had access to your landline number and your address. You hadn't been getting on with Connor, and therefore you suspected him. Now, I've been told that someone other than the usual pimps recently dropped some call-girl cards off in a local phone box. My informant rescued a couple of the cards and described the man to me. He's a red-headed businessman.'

Evonne handed Bea a mug of coffee. ‘Donald? Are you sure? What a lark if . . . No, surely you're mistaken.'

‘He might have thought it was just a joke.'

‘Some joke! Inciting men to phone me at all hours of the night . . . and that man on Friday actually tried to rape me.'

‘You agree that Donald has to be stopped?'

‘If it is him, then yes; of course. But . . . what on earth will Cyn say?' Shocked laughter. ‘I mean, she's something else!' The girl made herself a cup of coffee, too. ‘Are you sure, though? I mean, men try it on all the time. It doesn't mean that they're going to turn into stalkers or anything.'

‘Not a stalker. Worse.'

‘I suppose you're right. What he did
was
much worse. It's difficult to get my head round this. I mean, someone I know! Carmela's phone number was on the cards, too. Which means that he also tried making a pass at her . . .' Evonne was still in shock, but this amused her. ‘I'd like to have seen her face! She's a toughie. Ugh. I'm trying to think of the mentality of a man who sets punters on to women who've refused him. Not nice.'

‘No, and he's got to be stopped. The first step is to confront him with it, but for that I need your help. Will you come upstairs with me and talk to him about it?'

‘No police.'

‘Donald needs psychiatric help or he'll find another woman to persecute. If he agrees to counselling, then we can leave the police out of it.'

‘My dad would kill me if it got into the papers. It was bad enough when I got a caution, the rioting last year, you know? I was off my head on something Connor had given me, but . . . No, I won't shove all the blame on to him. I was as bad as him. Have a biscuit, and we'll beard the dragon in her den. I'm looking forward to seeing you deal with our Cynthia. She's a dragon, you know.'

‘In which case, perhaps we're rescuing a victim from her clutches?'

Evonne started to laugh, spluttered into her coffee, coughed, sneezed, and used some kitchen towel to blow her nose. ‘Oh, you!' she said. ‘All right. What do we tell Connor?'

‘Nothing, till we're sure of our ground. Let's leave Connor watching his war film while we tackle the man upstairs.'

Cynthia opened the door to them. Dressed all in black, six foot plus. Black hair, severely cut. High cheekbones. A frown. ‘Yes?'

Evonne said, ‘May we come in?'

Cyn transferred her frown to Bea. ‘Is this the busybody who's been turning everyone upside down?'

‘Indeed,' said Bea, ‘and more to come, I'm afraid. We really came to speak to your partner but—'

‘What's he done now?' Fierce, but not defensive.

‘Perhaps nothing,' said Bea. ‘It may be a case of mistaken identity.'

Cyn didn't move to let them in. ‘What's he supposed to have done, then?'

Bea produced the cards in their plastic wallet and held them up for Cynthia to see. ‘These call-girl cards were left in a public phone box nearby. One of them gives the phone numbers for Evonne and Carmela. In consequence, they've had to deal with a number of unpleasant calls.'

‘What? This is the first I've heard of it. What's it got to do with me?'

‘Nothing. Carmela dealt with the problem by getting rid of her landline. Evonne and Connor dithered; did nothing about it. On Friday a new card was put in the phone box, giving Evonne's address. Not her phone number; her actual address, here in this building. A punter saw the card and called on Evonne, demanding her services. When he was refused, he tried to rape her. She and Connor had much ado to beat him off.'

Cynthia reached for the cards but Bea held them high, out of reach. ‘There are fingerprints on them, made by the man who was seen to put them in the phone box. We have a description, and the description matches Donald.'

‘Ridiculous!' She shouted back into the flat. ‘Don! Come here!'

A man appeared behind her. Tall, slightly built, with ginger hair beginning to recede and nervously fluttering eyelids. He wore a blue and white sweater with a pattern of reindeer on it, over jeans. Office manager in casual attire.

Cynthia said, ‘You heard? Tell them she's mistaken.' And to Bea, ‘He's not much cop in bed, of course, but he wouldn't . . .' She turned back to him and gaped, because if anyone looked guilty, it was him.

Donald flushed. ‘I . . . I . . .'

Cynthia said, in tones of disbelief, ‘You can't mean that you . . .?'

He stammered. ‘I-I-m s-sorry. It wasn't m-meant to be—'

‘You bastard!' Cynthia caught him a backhander across his chin. He reeled back into the flat, ending up on his back like an insect, hands in the air, knees working to push himself along the carpet and away from her.

The door of the flat slammed in Bea's face.

Silence.

Evonne said, ‘Ought we to do something?'

Bea chewed her lower lip. ‘Mm. What would you advise?'

They stared at the closed door.

Heavy steps mounted the stairs behind them. The new caretaker. ‘What's going on?'

The door to Cynthia's flat opened again. Bea and Evonne stepped back in haste as the wretched Donald was thrown out and across the landing. He ended up against the door of the McIntyres' flat opposite. An overcoat followed. The door slammed. Donald put his hand to his cheek, which was reddening.

The door opened. A laptop whizzed out, followed by an armful of clothing.

‘What's all this, then?' The new caretaker, out of his depth.

The door of the McIntyres' flat opened and Eliot's head appeared. ‘What's going on?'

More clothing. A suitcase, lid jumping open. Some books.

‘Has someone declared World War Three?' Carmela, exquisitely dressed, descended the stairs, ready for her afternoon constitutional.

Cynthia reappeared, to toss out a gym bag and some shoes. She noticed Carmela and said, ‘That worm gave your phone number out as a call girl.'

‘Makes sense,' said Carmela. ‘I wondered if it might be him.' She wore stiletto-heeled boots. ‘No police.' As she walked across the landing, she accidentally or otherwise trod on one of Donald's hands.

He screamed.

Bea yearned for killer heels like that. So stylish. So deadly.

Carmela shook her heel out of Donald's hand and proceeded down the stairs without even turning her head.

Donald whimpered, holding his hand high in the air. ‘Help me, someone!' Blood welled.

The caretaker said, ‘Stop that racket!'

‘Shouldn't we do something?' Eliot wanted to help, but didn't know how. ‘He ought to have a bandage on that.'

Cynthia dumped another armful outside her door. ‘I'll put the rest out for the dustmen tomorrow morning.' She went back into her flat and shut the door behind her.

Helen McIntyre peered over her husband's shoulder. ‘What happened? Oh, Donald, that looks nasty!'

Eliot turned to Bea as the person who seemed likeliest to enlighten him. ‘Shouldn't we get him to a doctor's or something?'

Donald was crying with pain. ‘My hand's broken! Someone, help me!'

‘He needs a doctor, all right,' said Evonne, addressing the McIntyres and the caretaker. ‘He needs a psychiatrist. Don't you dare help him! It was he who put the call-girl cards in a phone booth with our phone numbers on them, just because I told him to take his hands off me. He doesn't deserve our pity.' And to Donald, ‘Take a cab, and take your belongings with you.'

He whined, ‘I can't. How can I? Someone lend me a handkerchief to put round my hand!'

Helen said, ‘I'll fetch my first-aid box,' and disappeared.

Eliot, with distaste in his voice, said, ‘I suppose we could store his things in our flat till tomorrow.'

The caretaker made up his mind to help. ‘Don't you worry. I'll see him off the premises, him and all his belongings. Your keys to this building, sir. If you please.'

‘She's crippled me for life!'

Helen reappeared with a metal first-aid box, saying, ‘No, no. It's not as bad as that.' She produced a large plaster and stuck it over the back of Donald's hand.

‘Your keys, sir,' repeated the caretaker.

Donald was in tears, but fumbled a bunch of keys out of his jeans pocket, and handed them over.

‘What's happening?' The lift doors opened to reveal Carrie and Lucy, fresh from their afternoon nap, and all agog.

Evonne, hands on hips, explained. ‘This is the rat who put me and Carmela in danger. Not to worry; he's leaving.'

Donald, still crying and holding up his damaged hand, struggled to get into his overcoat. ‘It was only a joke. You can't throw me out. Where am I supposed to go?'

‘A hotel,' said Evonne. ‘If they'll have you. Be grateful we're not calling the police. But listen to me! You'd better get your GP to refer you to a specialist counsellor, because if you don't I'll be ringing your line manager at work and telling him exactly what you've been up to. And yes, I do know where you work, because you told me how well you were doing, and how worthwhile it would be for me to be nice to you.'

The caretaker scooped up some of Donald's belongings. ‘Let me help you with your things. Sir.' The door of the flat opened, and a heavy black plastic bag flew out, narrowly missing Donald. The door slammed shut again.

Helen dived back into her flat to produce a second black plastic bag, and together with Bea, they picked up everything of Donald's which wouldn't go into the suitcase and gym bag.

‘Thank you, miss,' said the caretaker. ‘I'll take care of this gentleman now. I'll get him a taxi and put him and everything he owns into it.'

Cynthia's door opened again, and a flutter of credit cards dropped to the floor, followed by an empty leather wallet. The cards had been neatly cut up. Oh. That was going to make life difficult for Donald, wasn't it?

Bea's estimation of Cynthia rose. A formidable woman, indeed. Now, what about his mobile phone, or did he have an iPad?

No sooner thought about than they, too, were thrown out on to the landing. It looked as if Cynthia had taken a hammer to both.

Donald, tears straggling down his reddened face, picked up what he could of the remains of his life and shuffled off down the stairs, followed by the caretaker humping his luggage.

Evonne brushed one hand off against the other. ‘May his love life never improve.'

Lucy and Sylvia's eyes were round, their cheeks flushed with pleasure. ‘What a scandal! Do you mean he really . . .? Oh, who would have thought it?'

Bea followed Donald and the caretaker down the stairs and out into the street. A nasty cold wind was blowing and Donald shivered as he stood, surrounded by luggage, waiting for a taxi.