False Alarm (7 page)

The kettle shrilled. Hands on automatic, she made a cafetière of coffee. ‘Did CJ tell you exactly why he wants to help Sir Lucas?'

‘Yes, yes. He's known him a long time. Something to do with the European Court of Justice, he didn't give me the details.' He looked at his watch. ‘I've only time for a quick cup of tea. Said I wouldn't be late.'

He wanted tea, not coffee. Was there enough water left in the kettle to make him a cup of tea? There wasn't. Fill kettle. Keep calm. ‘CJ didn't tell you Lucas has to be kept sweet, in order to push some bill or other through in the next session of parliament?'

‘Yes, yes. He said you didn't like him. Honestly, Mother Hen . . .' His nickname for her slipped out, but without its usual fondness.

‘He told you that I didn't like him?' She stared at Oliver. Stared inside herself. ‘I can't justify my dislike.' She shrugged, trying to minimize the damage her words had done. ‘First impressions. No doubt when I get to know him better . . .'

‘It's not like you to be so hasty.' He grinned at her; the superior smug smile of someone who knows much better than a woman old enough to be his mother – or even, in this case, his grandmother.

‘No, it's not.' The kettle boiled, and she poured water over a tea bag in his favourite mug. ‘I can't explain it.'

‘I can.' He gave her a quick hug, at the same time removing the mug from her hands. ‘I take it with lemon now, no milk. Have we got any lemons?'

She got one out of the fridge for him.

He said, smiling, sharing a splendid secret with her, ‘You've been everything to me since you picked me out of the gutter. You've fed me and scolded me and taught me everything you know. You've sent me to university and been better than a mother to me. Now that I'm grown up and moving into the great wide world, now that other people are beginning to take an interest in my career, I do understand that you can't help feeling, well, left behind.'

She stared at him. Was there any truth in what he said? Could she be that self-centred that she didn't want anyone else to help him climb the ladder of success?

No, surely not. She looked deep into herself and grimaced. Perhaps there was an element of that in her stand against Lucas? But her main objection remained; she neither liked nor trusted the man.

Had CJ insinuated these doubts about Bea's position into Oliver's head? If so, how very, very clever of him, because Bea didn't know how to counter them.

She must, however, try.

‘Look at it from my point of view, Oliver. You've been doing marvellously well at university. You are only in your second year, but already they're asking you to take on research in this and that. If you leave now—'

‘Opportunities like this don't come along every day. Most people would give their eye teeth for a chance to join Vicori, and I'm not letting anything stand in my way. You don't really want me to refuse him, do you?' He could use charm as others used butter.

‘A man like Lucas doesn't think as you or I do. He uses people, rewarding and discarding them at will. I suspect that if he finds out –
when
he finds out – which of his executives is seeking to supplant him, there'll be a bloodbath—'

An amused smile. ‘Now you're going too far.'

She wasn't getting through to him. She tried again. ‘Oh, it will be a sanitized affair. A convenient accident, or a depression leading to suicide. I'm sure no one will be more sorry than he to lose a valued member of his team.'

‘Ridiculous!' He put his arm around her to give her a hug and gulped down the rest of his tea. ‘You won't mind if I leave most of my stuff in the hall for tonight, will you? I'll only need my overnight bag for now. Is it all right if I borrow the car?'

‘Sorry. No. I need it.' She didn't. She felt a pang of contrition at having lied to him, but she was too annoyed with him to let him have it. Besides, if he took it now to meet up with CJ for supper, he'd take it over to Lady O's tomorrow and then on into the City. And where would he park it? Was he going to be given a parking slot at Vicori House?

No, it was her car, and she needed it. Probably. What she really meant was that she was cross with him and didn't want to lend him her car.

He glanced at his watch. ‘I'll walk round there then; it's probably the quickest. See you at the weekend, right?'

She made one last effort. ‘Before you go; I may be quite wrong about Lucas – I hope I am for your sake – but he can afford the very best lawyers and you can't. If he asked you to sign something, anything, would you get CJ to vet it first?'

‘Oh, really!'

‘I'm serious. Also, I think his office is bugged, probably so that he doesn't need to take notes of any conferences he has there, so—'

‘You're way off the planet!'

‘Keep your eyes open, that's all I ask. And keep your eyes open at Lady O's. Remember there's a killer about!'

He wasn't listening. He was off, and she was left to think how badly she'd handled the interview. For instance, would it really matter that she didn't like Lucas if he was prepared to further Oliver's career? Working for a man didn't mean you had to like him. Loads of people didn't have a choice in the matter of their boss; he existed, and they toed the line or else.

But she could imagine a scenario in which Oliver was demoted for some reason or other and ended up at the bottom of the anthill, staring at a computer in a prescribed space . . . rather like a battery hen. Feed, sleep, produce. Die.

She shuddered. Decided she didn't want to drink any of the coffee she'd made, put Oliver's mug in the dishwasher and rummaged in the freezer for a frozen meal. Cauliflower cheese. It would have to do. Microwave it. Tidy the kitchen while it cooked. Eat it at the counter. Fend off their big, black, hairy cat. ‘Winston! No!'

Winston gave her a fat grin and lifted one paw in a begging movement. He was as full of charm as Oliver.

She fed Winston and removed herself to the living room, which ran from front to back of the house. Large sash windows at the front overlooked the street, while at the back a pair of French windows let out on to a cast-iron balcony with a spiral staircase leading down to the courtyard. Because of the slope on which the house was built, the agency occupied semi-basement rooms at the front of the house while her office at the back led straight out on to the garden.

She checked that all the windows were locked and the curtains tightly drawn against the damp, chill night. There was an almost full moon over the spire of the church.

She was restless. Eventually, she sat down at the table by the windows at the back of the living room and took out her patience cards. Her dear husband Hamilton had been accustomed to sit there of an evening, his hands moving the cards around while he pondered this and that . . . or prayed in silence.

Now his portrait looked down on her. Round-faced, wise . . . she missed him so much. He seemed to be saying, ‘Patience.'

She threw the pack of cards down, halfway through laying out a game.

Patience. Ugh. Not her scene.

But necessary, perhaps? If she couldn't alter what was happening . . .?

There wasn't anything she could do about it, was there?

Hm. Well. Perhaps there was, though it was a long shot and probably wouldn't get her anywhere.

Why bother, then?

Because even if it didn't get her anywhere, at least she'd have done everything she could to avert what seemed to her to be a looming catastrophe.

She went back down the stairs and into her office. Switched her computer on. She'd saved the information on the memory stick in a document. Accessed it. Now . . . where was that name she thought she recognized?

Mm. Mm. No? No. Ah, there!

She ran the names through the agency's client list. No, the name she thought she'd remembered didn't match. She nearly gave up. This was the sort of thing which Oliver excelled at. There was, however, one name which stood out on Sir Lucas' list because of its plethora of initials. L.A.M. Emerson. Reading ‘lame'. But not at the right address.

Bea stared at the screen, wondering. People did move. They moved into a better address when their husbands got promotion. They downsized when grown-up children left home or their spouse decamped or they lost their jobs or whatever. They kept their phone numbers if they could.

It was five years since the agency had supplied Mrs Emerson with a chef and silver service waitresses for a party of twelve at an address in Knightsbridge. A party of twelve indicated a spacious dining-room which was a luxury in today's terms. A far cry from the two or three bedroom apartment in Lucas's building. Perhaps the husband had died since that memorable party. Would she still have the same telephone number? Bea returned to the list supplied by Sir Lucas. No, the phone number was different.

Bea's hand hovered over the telephone and withdrew. What could she possibly say to Mrs Emerson, even supposing it was the same woman?

Dear Mrs Emerson. Can you give me the low-down on Lady O? You aren't acquainted with her? Oh dear. Sorry to have troubled you.

Think again. She dialled. ‘Is that Mrs Emerson? This is Mrs Abbot here, of the Abbot Agency. You may remember using our services some years ago?'

‘Indeed, yes. Our golden wedding celebration.' The cracked voice of an older woman.

Relief! It was the same woman.

‘Happy days, long gone. But . . .?' Mystified.

‘I'm so sorry to trouble you, but I had occasion to visit Lady Ossett today and noticed a For Sale board outside the flats. As it happens we have a client who has asked us to keep an eye out for a place in your area . . .' It was quite true that they were occasionally asked to do this for a client now and then, but such queries were always passed on to a reputable estate agency. ‘I thought it might suit him very well, only I was disturbed by some hints that Lady Ossett dropped about vandalism . . .?'

‘Far be it from me to discourage your client from considering the purchase of a flat in our building, although I must warn you that considerable redecoration will be needed, as nothing has been done to the ground floor apartment since the occupant, who was an old lady who'd lived there for ever, died. As for the other, I understand it will need considerable refurbishment. The tenant has gone completely to pieces since his partner – if that's what they call them nowadays – walked out on him. I'm not sure that that one is officially up for sale yet, but since the man's lost his job, perhaps it will come on the market soon as well.'

Bea made notes. One flat was for sale because someone had died, and the tenant of the other one had got the sack so would also have to sell.

‘They will both need updating, if that's what they call it nowadays, which, as I said to my dear friend Carrie, Mrs Kempton, who lives above me, means that they will tear out a perfectly good bathroom and kitchen, cover every surface in black marble, put in a wet room instead of a shower, not to mention a false ceiling and dotting it with those tiny lights that you can't get at to replace when they burn out.'

‘I know they can be difficult—'

‘Difficult? If my husband were only alive, God bless him, he'd have dealt with them in next to no time. As it is—'

‘I sympathize. I found all that side of things hard after my own dear husband died.'

‘Ah. You understand, then.'

Bea took a deep breath. ‘May I come round to see you some time, Mrs Emerson? Perhaps you could introduce me to Mrs Kempton, too. And maybe the man whose flat is up for sale? What number is that flat, by the way?'

‘He's opposite Carrie, at number eleven.'

‘So she's below Ms Lessbury, is that right?' said Bea, making notes.

‘No, indeed.' A definite coolness. ‘Ms Lessbury is at number seven, but I doubt if you'd find her disengaged from teatime onwards, if you understand my French.'

Bea grinned. So Ms Lessbury was known to be a lady of afternoon appointments, was she? ‘Well, if the apartments are in reasonably good condition, and we can discount the unfortunate happenings which Lady Ossett told me about, then my client might well be interested in having a look.'

‘Hm. I wouldn't take much notice of what Lady Ossett says!' Scorn in the voice? Lady O was no fan of Mrs Emerson's? Or vice versa? ‘Well, shall we say ten thirty tomorrow morning? I don't sleep well nowadays and it takes me a while to face the day, so Mrs Kempton usually joins me for a coffee mid-morning.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Emerson. Ten thirty would be splendid.'

Bea put the phone down and started to make a chart of who lived where in the flats and what sort of person they might be. She told herself that it was too soon to generalize, but a picture was emerging of a number of single men and women each occupying a two or three bedroom flat. Bea told herself there was nothing unusual about that, but for some reason she had a sense of disquiet about the situation.

After a lot of thought, she rang CJ to take him up on his offer of supper. Well, why not? At least she could talk through her reservations about Holland and Butcher with him – and avoid the subject of Sir Lucas and his near encounter with death.

M
rs Emerson and her friend Mrs Kempton were a double act.

Two elderly ladies with comfortable figures in woolly sweaters, unfashionably long grey skirts and support hose. Trainers with Velcro fastenings. They had no-nonsense short-cut grey hair; no make-up except for a colourless lipsalve; no nail varnish. One had a heavy gold locket on a chain round her neck, the other had a marcasite brooch pinned to her sweater. Their wedding rings could no longer be eased over thickened knuckles.

They took Bea's long black coat and hung it up in an old-fashioned wardrobe in the hallway; no fitted cupboards here. Everything in the flat was from an earlier age. You could call it Out of Date, or you could call it Date-less. There was even a hallstand with a mirror above and a lead-lined receptacle for a variety of sticks and umbrellas below.