False Alarm (9 page)

‘Sub-basement?' said Bea.

‘The lift goes right down to it. The basement level is partly at ground floor level at the back, but not at the front. Mr Pancko has his flat there, and his cleaning cupboards and workshop. There's also the washing and drying machines for the whole complex, only we don't use them because we've got our own up here.'

‘His name isn't
Pancko
, dear. It's not Poncho, either. I can't think exactly what it is, but it's not Pancko. He comes from Yugoslavia, I think.'

‘It's called Croatia nowadays, isn't it? All I know is that he's not the most obliging of men. No, it wasn't him. It was Tariq, I'm sorry to say. So he'll be leaving, and I suppose his flat will be coming on to the market, if you're interested.'

Carrie lamented, ‘It means the decorators will be coming in again. It's never ending in this place. Upstairs, downstairs. Everywhere. Banging and crashing just when I want my afternoon nap.'

Bea's mobile shrilled, and she dived into her bag to rescue it.

Surprise! It was Lady Ossett's sweet tones on the phone. ‘Mrs Abbott, I'm afraid I was a little short with you yesterday—'

‘Not at all,' said Bea, glad that her faux pas about the toy boy was to be overlooked.

‘Such a misunderstanding about my husband's glasses, which he was going to send someone round for, but I understand that your protégé Oliver – such a pleasant young man – will deliver them for me this afternoon. So I'm wondering, I've been thinking about your offer of someone simpatico, as you might say, someone who would fit in with our circle of friends, who might perhaps take pity on me in my hour of need.'

Bea felt the two elderly ladies' gaze on her. Lady Ossett's crystal clear tones could probably be heard throughout the whole flat. ‘May I ring you back when I'm free?'

‘My nerves are shredded. If you could just give me a tiny ray of hope?'

‘Er, yes. Of course. I'm sure I can arrange something but . . . I'll pop in to see you later, shall I?' Bea cut the call off.

Lucy and Carrie switched their eyes to their coffee cups. Their ears were perfectly formed and set neatly to the sides of their heads, but to Bea's inner eye had at least doubled in size during her telephone call.

Bea produced a social smile. ‘A client in trouble. I must get back to her, but in the meantime . . .'

Half an hour later she left Lucy Emerson's flat, shutting the door firmly behind her. She had a notebook full of scribbles and a burning desire to be out in the fresh air. The air in the flat had seemed short of oxygen. An illusion, of course, born of the two ladies' relentless gossiping. You met this in villages, where the inhabitants were more interested in the number of times a neighbouring man or woman might or might not change their underclothes or claim benefits to which they were not entitled. You met it in built-up areas of towns and cities where people never travelled more than five miles from home. You didn't expect to meet it in a vibrant, capital city like London.

It left a nasty taste in the mouth.

Bea hung over the banister for a while, breathing deeply, knowing that her interview with Lady O was likely to call on all her reserves of patience. Still, if Oliver was going to be at Vicori House that afternoon, someone had got to keep Lady O company. The lift emitted a soft, almost inaudible whine as it passed Bea on its way upwards. She heard the gentle grind of the doors opening, a pause as someone entered, and the doors puffed shut. The lift descended; taking Oliver down to the ground floor?

Prompt on cue, Bea's mobile rang. Lady O.

‘I'm on my way.' Bea didn't wait for the lift, but took the stairs.

Bea paused on the landing outside the penthouse to catch her breath. Was she so badly out of condition that a couple of flights of stairs had her puffing and panting? Er, yes. She really must try to take more exercise.

The morning had been cloudy but the sun was trying to break through. A ray shot across the landing. Bea checked to see if it would show up the tack or screw marks which she'd noted on her previous visit.

The hole on the right had disappeared. What? It can't have done. She hunkered down and got out her magnifying glass. No mark.

She checked the opposite side of the staircase. No mark there, either. She sat back on her heels. Thought. Rubbed her finger across where the mark had been and . . . yes . . . there was the slightest of irregularities there, as if a spot of paint, or filler, or some other pliable material had been rammed into the hole to make it disappear from sight.

On the opposite side, too. She hadn't imagined the holes, had she?

She got out her mobile phone and checked. No photos of the holes. None.

She drew in her breath. Remembered handing her phone to Sir Lucas, who had taken it over to the window to inspect the evidence. He'd carried on the conversation for a few minutes with his back to her, before shutting up the phone and returning it to her.

Conclusion; he'd deleted the photographs.

Why had he done that? He'd said he thought he knew who was responsible for his tumble down the stairs, and he'd have needed the photographs in order to prosecute the man, or to persuade him to resign. Whatever. So he wouldn't have destroyed the evidence.

On the other hand, he didn't want outsiders knowing that he was under attack because it might affect the share price of his company. So what had he done? He'd deleted the pictures on Bea's phone so that she couldn't use them in any way, but only after he'd first stored them somewhere for his own use.

He must have used those few minutes when his back was turned to send them on to somebody else for safe-keeping and further investigation. To his own phone, perhaps? And only after that had he deleted Bea's photographs.

Bea shook her head. Whatever had she got herself into now? This man outclassed her in every way. Why didn't she just give up and go home?

Well, for one thing, she couldn't abandon Maggie. And for another, Lady Ossett was afraid of something, and that something had not disappeared with her husband's departure.

Bea rang the doorbell and was let into the penthouse suite.

L
ady O was dressed in pale blue and white today. As pretty as a picture, except that lines of strain were beginning to show around her artfully made-up blue eyes.

‘Oliver left half an hour ago. You've taken your time, I must say.' She turned on her heel and left Bea to hang up her coat for herself.

A certain disarray – today's papers scattered around, a cushion on the floor, a curtain not properly drawn back – indicated that Lady O was no longer on top of her housekeeping. Ah, her cleaner didn't come on Fridays, did she?

‘Coffee?' The offer was made in perfunctory fashion and received as such.

‘No, thank you.'

Lady O went to the window at the far end and stood there, looking out. She fiddled with the gauzy scarf at her neck.

Bea took a seat by the table, noting that that day's crossword had been completed. Had Oliver helped Lady O with it today? Probably.

‘I'm a bag of nerves,' said Lady O. ‘I really can't go on like this. You really must find me someone . . . Maggie has been so unkind, refusing to help me . . .'

Good for Maggie.

‘I asked young Oliver, but he seems to think it wouldn't be exactly . . . I'm at my wits end.'

Bea recognized desperation when she saw it. ‘They don't understand the strain you're under.'

Lady O shot Bea a haunted glance, two parts of surprise to four of hope. ‘You know, then? I haven't said anything. I wouldn't. I promised Lucas I wouldn't.'

‘He thinks the wire across the stairs was arranged by someone at the corporation with the help of an accomplice who lives in this building—'

‘Lucas is convinced Tariq has been helping one of his vice chairmen to incapacitate him in some way, but he won't go public with it and Tariq's still here because he can't find anyone to take the tenancy off him. I told Lucas to end the contract and then he'd be rid of Tariq; but he won't. He's penny wise and pound foolish.'

‘You don't agree with your husband on this, do you? You think that Tariq might have been responsible for some of the incidents that have been going on here, but not for the attack on your life.'

Lady O crumpled into a nearby chair, wringing her hands. Yes, she really did wring her hands. Bea watched with interest. She'd never seen anyone actually doing it before.

‘How did you guess? Oliver said you were pretty bright.'

It had been a guess, but Bea had noted how various incidents had escalated into attempted murder and added Lady O's almost palpable fear to the mixture.

‘Tell me about it.'

Lady O made a helpless gesture with both hands. ‘I wasn't absolutely sure at first, but yesterday . . . As you probably know, we play bridge here on Thursday afternoons from three to five. We chose a Thursday because Lucas has meetings well into the evening on that day, so he's not inconvenienced. My cleaner comes in three mornings a week for a couple of hours, on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays. She's Polish, but very good. Only, she does like to air the rooms. She opens the windows even on cold days, particularly in my bedroom. She says my scent gives her asthma.'

Bea went to the nearest window and looked out.

‘No, this way. I'll show you.' Lady O led the way back into the hallway and turned through an archway into a long corridor leading off left and right. Of course, the layout would not be the same as for the flats below.

She opened doors on the corridor to the right. ‘This is the room where we have our bridge parties.' A large room, full of light, with tables and chairs all set up, ready to go. ‘Then at the end here we have Maggie's room, and the spare bedroom, both en suite. Turning back again here we have the utility room, junk room, and then – opposite the bridge room there's the kitchen and the dining room, though we don't use that much. We usually have a table set up in the living room when we're by ourselves, and of course we hire staff if we give a dinner party.'

A bewildering number of rooms. But of course the penthouse covered the area of the whole building, and was therefore twice the size of the flats below.

Lady O continued down the left-hand corridor. ‘Another toilet. Here we have Lucas' TV room, his study and his bedroom . . . and finally the master bedroom, en suite.'

She threw open a door on to a beautiful room done in shades of mushroom and cream with gilt trimmings. Several mirrored doors no doubt concealed extensive clothes closets. The bed was a four-poster with silk curtains held back by gilded cherubs. The carpet was silk, too. It was breathtaking. And yes, the lady's perfume was perhaps a trifle overwhelming.

Lady O led the way to some French windows which, when opened, would let you out on to the terrace garden, which seemed to run around three sides of the roof space and provided yet another stunning view of the city . . . and of the sky. The sky at night must seem so close you would want to reach out and touch the stars – if there wasn't too much light pollution, that is.

Lady O opened one of the French windows and stepped out on to the terrace. The chill wind outside caused her to clasp her arms around her body, and she rapidly returned to the warmth.

‘My cleaner always opens this window. I've told her time and again, but she will do it. The fire escape is just round the corner. It's on the outside of the building, connecting all the flats via a series of balconies, such an old-fashioned idea, but this block is nearly a hundred years old, so what can you expect?'

‘You don't get burglars?'

Almost a smile. ‘There's an excellent alarm system – Lucas saw to that – but of course it's turned off when my cleaner is around. No, it's the cat that gave me the most trouble. Professor Jacobsen has – had – a long-haired grey cat . . .'

Bea mentally accessed the information provided by the two elderly gossips. ‘
. . . On the top floor under the penthouse there's the Old Codger, as we call him, and his cat. Jewish. With a twice-a-week housekeeper. The place is full of books. His daughter comes over regular as clockwork to see he changes his clothes, and she keeps the freezer filled though mostly he goes out for meals
. . .' So that was Professor Jacobsen.

‘The cat was called Momi, it did its doodahs in the tubs on my terrace, and left hairs all over the place, perfectly horrible, but my cleaner doted on him, used to bring him titbits, would you believe? So Momi visited me almost every day, no matter how often I shooed him out, and of course the open window was an invitation. At night he'd caterwaul outside my window. I kept an aerosol handy, with water in it. One spray with that, and off he'd go, complaining. It was worse during the day. He used to sneak in, and I'd find him on my pillow, or in my favourite chair . . .'

She paused, breathing deeply. ‘I'm sorry, of course. It was a dreadful thing, and I haven't dared tell Professor Jacobsen. He's been up asking if I'd seen his cat, and of course I said I hadn't. He, the cat, is in a black plastic bag behind the biggest of the tubs outside. I thought of asking Maggie to get rid of the body for me, but she's mad about that cat of yours, isn't she, and I didn't think she'd do it.'

Ah. Now we're getting to the truth. ‘The cat's dead?'

Lady O's eyes were wild. She nodded. ‘We were well into the bridge party yesterday afternoon when I remembered I hadn't prepared anything for my supper, so I popped across to the kitchen to take a piece of steak out of the freezer and put it under a mesh cage to defrost. When my guests had all gone, I went back to the kitchen and the cat was lying on the floor. Dead. He'd shoved the cage aside and eaten nearly all of the steak.'

‘That might not be—'