False Alarm (28 page)

Maggie looked at her watch. ‘This won't take long, will it? I've got to keep an eye on the supper.'

Bea rang Harvey's bell. And waited. She had an uneasy feeling that . . . But surely, why would anyone want to harm him . . .? Unless of course . . .

‘Maggie, I don't want to be alarmist, but would you take the lift down to the basement and ask the caretaker if he'd let us into Harvey's flat?'

Maggie opened her mouth to object, changed her mind, and disappeared into the lift.

Bea waited. And waited. She rang the bell again. She knocked on the door.

No response.

The whine of the lift heralded Maggie's return, alone. ‘He's gone out. There's a note on the door of his flat giving a mobile phone number, saying he'll be back tomorrow morning. I rang the number. He's in a pub somewhere, says he doesn't work on Sundays. So now what do we do?'

B
ea looked down at her boots, and then at the door. It was a very solid door. ‘I don't think I could kick it in. Do you think Oliver could manage it?'

‘But why? He's working on the computer.' Maggie fidgeted. ‘Look, I need to put the vegetables on. If you're so desperate to speak to Harvey, I'll go up to the penthouse and down the fire escape and tap on his window.'

‘Don't do that. It would destroy any footprints there are in the snow. Well, there's only one thing for it.' She crossed the foyer, put her finger on Carmela's bell and kept it there.

Carmela came to the door at last, looking not quite as soignée as usual. ‘Is the building on fire?'

‘I think something's happened to Harvey. May I go along your balcony . . .?'

‘What?'

Bea flattened Carmela against the door in her haste to get to the kitchen. All the ingredients for a supper for two were neatly laid out on the counter, waiting to be cooked. Bea wondered in passing who Carmela was planning to share her supper with, but had no time to speculate.

The key was in the lock. She wrestled the door open and stepped out on to the balcony. It was getting colder by the minute. The powdering of snow on the balcony had become thicker. Bea caught her heel in the grating and had to tug it free as she hurried along. Bother! Another pair of boots ruined.

Harvey's kitchen window. Newly replaced glass. Put in by the replacement caretaker? Nobody to be seen inside. A frozen meal for one lay thawing on a wooden chopping board.

Carmela was right behind her. ‘What is it?'

‘Harvey. Don't know. I hope . . .'

She pointed along the balcony to where some footprints were rapidly being obliterated as more snow fell.

Carmela tried the kitchen door. It opened. ‘Harvey?'

Silence. A dripping tap somewhere?

Maggie loomed up behind them. ‘Brrr. What gives?'

‘Don't come in,' said Bea, following Carmela into the flat. ‘He was in his study. Which door is it?' She'd lost her sense of direction.

‘Here.' Carmela threw the door open and froze with her arm held out, barring Bea's way in. Thus for a long moment. Then she turned her head to look at Bea. ‘How did you know?'

Bea looked. Squinched her eyes shut, and opened them again. Took a deep breath. ‘I didn't. I think he tried to warn me, but I wasn't quick enough to understand him. But then, the footsteps in the snow . . .'

Maggie looked over their shoulders and yelped. ‘Eeek! Oh no! He can't really be dead, can he?'

Bea suppressed an impulse to snap Maggie's head off by saying that he couldn't very well be still alive with half his head missing, could he? He was dead. Deceased. Passed away. Had left us for a better place. Pick your platitude. She felt the start of a cold, hard rage in her stomach. She'd liked Harvey.

Maggie retched and ran back to the kitchen.

Carmela still didn't move. She was very pale. Her eyelids flickered. ‘This one can't be written off as an accident. Or can it?'

‘No!' Bea guessed what was coming.

Carmela passed her tongue over her lips. ‘It could, you know. He was looking for something in his albums—'

‘I see what you're getting at. If you wanted to twist things, you could tell the police that he'd promised to look out some cutting or other for me to see. He was annoyed with himself, said he'd misplaced it somewhere.'

‘Well?' Carmela watched Bea for her reaction. ‘He was reaching for something from that high shelf and pulled an old typewriter down on top of himself. Misadventure.'

Bea felt acid burn in her throat. ‘You really think this can be brushed under the carpet? Of course Sir Lucas would prefer it. He doesn't want any bad press. But does his patronage mean so much to you that you'd write off Harvey's death as an accident?'

‘I could ask you the same question; how much does it mean to you?'

Bea stiffened. ‘I've passed the point of no return. I wouldn't give Sir Lucas the time of day.'

Carmela's mouth distorted into an attempt at a smile. She looked down at the remains of Harvey lying on his back on the floor. One blue eye stared back at her. The other had gone. ‘I liked Harvey. He amused me. But if push comes to shove . . . I don't know . . . I really don't.'

Bea turned away. ‘Have you got a mobile phone on you? I could use mine, but the call will come better from you, as you're a tenant and I'm only a visitor.'

‘I'll phone for an ambulance from my flat. Coming?'

Bea rubbed her forehead, trying to think straight. ‘I think it's best if you do it by yourself. We can't use the balcony because we need to preserve the evidence of the footprints as much as we can. I'm afraid the snow is continuing to erase them, but it would be best if no one else uses the fire escape till the police have seen everything that is to be seen. Suppose you go out by Harvey's front door, touching as little as you can on the way? We'll send Maggie back upstairs; no need for her to stay. You can let the ambulance men into the building when they arrive, and I'll stay here to make sure no one else disturbs what's left of him.'

‘Poor Harvey,' said Carmela. ‘What a wretched business.'

‘She's got to be stopped.'

Carmela winced, and then recovered. ‘I don't know what you mean. It was a tragic accident.'

Bea dragged herself up the steps to her front door and inserted her key into the lock. All she could think about was throwing off her coat, sinking into the settee with a cup of something hot, and going to bed. She was feeling a mite queasy. Perhaps a cup of hot water or an indigestion tablet might be a good idea.

It was going to take some time for her to erase the image of Harvey's body from her memory. The ambulance men had come quickly enough. The doctor. A policeman. Carmela had been suave and persuasive. Maggie hadn't had anything to say. Bea had tried to raise doubts about the manner of Harvey's death. And failed.

Harvey's death was to be tidied away. Cut and dried. Misadventure. The building would probably be rechristened Accident Alley.

Bea was tired to her very bones.

The hall light was on. Odd. It was dark by the time she'd left the flats. Oliver and Maggie were staying overnight with Lady Ossett, so who . . .?

‘Where have you been? I've been waiting for ages.'

Her beloved son, Max. ‘Sorry, Max. A tiring day.'

The cat Winston stalked the hall, weaving backwards and forwards, yowling. He was hungry. Max wouldn't have thought of feeding him, of course.

‘Just a minute, Max. Let me feed the cat and then I'll attend to you. Phew! What a day.'

‘I suppose you've been out enjoying yourself, as usual.' He followed her into the kitchen, looking at his watch. ‘You've got ten minutes before the cab comes. We mustn't be late. Our reservation is for eight, and they won't keep the table.'

She scooped some food into a dish for Winston and let herself down on to a stool, still wearing her coat. She lifted one foot to inspect the heel of her boot. Yes, ruined, as she'd thought. ‘Dear Max, I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about.'

‘Don't you ever listen to your phone messages?'

‘I've been out all day, and my new mobile got smashed. You want to take me out to supper, is that it?'

He exhaled. ‘Not just “take you to supper”. This is important, Mother. I've booked us into the very latest restaurant. Our guests are Benton, the new managing director of Holland & Butcher, and his wife, whose name I forget. This will cement our relationship in the best possible way, but you turn up looking like . . . Forgive me, Mother, but you are not exactly looking your best at the moment.'

She stared at him and through him. The image of Harvey's ruined face flashed across her eyes and disappeared. She said, ‘Benton. Yes, I remember. He's the man who's going to replace their Mr Butcher, who turned out to be both inefficient and a scumbag. You'd think they'd drop his name from the firm, wouldn't you?'

‘Mother, will you listen to yourself? Of course they're dropping his name. Benton has been appointed managing director in his place, and tonight we're going to meet up with him and his wife and get better acquainted. This is important.' He smiled. Fatly.

Bea thought about throwing a tantrum. She thought about saying she had palpitations and needed to be whisked off to the hospital. She seriously considered knocking him out with something . . .

There didn't seem to be an ancient typewriter to hand for her to use as a weapon. Oh, poor Harvey . . .

Max looked at his watch. ‘This evening has taken quite some arranging, synchronizing our diaries and all that. Now, I want you to pay extra attention to his wife. She's a director and has shares in the company. Not that she attends meetings or even goes out much, but Benton insisted that he bring her along because she's the only daughter of the old man, of Mr Holland himself. It's obviously a good idea for you to get to know her, put her at her ease. You can do that, can't you?'

A director. Shares in the company. Doesn't attend meetings. Daughter of that Grand Old Man, Mr Butcher, who was generally considered to be well past his sell-by date. What was going on here?

Her brain simply wasn't responding to the usual stimuli. Too tired. And her stomach was more than a little queasy.

Max had gone to a lot of trouble to arrange this evening, and she didn't like to disappoint him, but . . . she wasn't sure she could even rise from the stool, never mind get herself ready to go out and be sociable.

On the other hand, she'd been shilly-shallying about making some kind of arrangement with Holland and Butcher for ages, and it was only right that she gave them her decision sooner rather than later. She hadn't been able to come up with any valid reason to refuse a closer arrangement with them apart from a ripple of unease about the way in which old man Holland ran the firm, and surely safeguards could be built in to prevent any repetition of what had happened before? Possibly she was being overcautious.

She told herself that Max had put in a lot of work on this project, so she should at least find out exactly how everyone saw the matter proceeding. He was right, and there was a good case to be made out for a meeting. If she found Benton to be sensible and trustworthy, she'd feel better about the whole thing.

She managed to get herself off the stool. Good girl! See, you can do it if you put your mind to it! To shower or not to shower? That is the question. What should she wear . . . the new black with the jet embroidery on the shoulders?

She had to take off the remains of the day. No, that wasn't right. She had to take off the
remains of the day's make-up
, applied that morning, so long ago. A decade ago. Before Harvey. Before defeat.

‘Fifteen minutes,' she said, and made her way towards the stairs.

Bea recognized the restaurant. She might have known it. CJ had brought her here . . . when? Surely it wasn't just last night, was it?

Max looked around, rubbing his hands. ‘The latest thing. Had the dickens of a job to get a table. Ah, there's Benton and his wife, waiting for us. So sorry we're late, Benton. My mother likes to take her time getting her public face on.'

Bea fixed a smile on her face. ‘Delighted,' she said, air-kissing Benton's wife, whose name, it appeared, was Dilys.

‘Dilys has the same problem,' said Benton, with a loud laugh.

Bea knew that it wasn't logical to dislike a man because of the way he laughed, but there it was; a factor in the equation. If Max knew what she was thinking, he'd lift his eyes to the heavens and say it was just like a woman to think such things important. What he didn't realize was that if you didn't enjoy the company of a man, you'd be foolish to get into bed with him. Sorry; she meant ‘into a relationship with him'.

Dilys was younger than her husband, puffy around the face, wearing a ruffled black dress which must have cost a penny or two but which did nothing for her plump figure. She was stiff with shyness. A nice girl, thought Bea. Perhaps a little intimidated by her husband and the surroundings?

‘Champagne all round?' said Max, signalling to the waiter.

Bea's stomach rebelled. ‘Not for me.' She pushed back her fatigue and set herself to put the girl at her ease.

Max and Benton got on like anything, dropping their voices to communicate with one another, and then roaring with laughter. Telling naughty jokes? No, talking about a PR firm they liked the look of, which they might approach to redesign the logo for their merged business. Excluding her, who'd been deputed to amuse the child-wife? Hm.

Small talk. ‘Tell me, Dilys; how many children do you have?'

Dilys spoke about her young family in a soft, breathy voice. Bea encouraged her to do so. It meant she hadn't to make too much of an effort herself. Her stomach was still acting up.