False Diamond--An Abbot Agency Mystery (24 page)

So where had she put the keys to the suitcases? The answer must be staring her in the face. Think, woman!

She sat on the edge of the bed and studied the cases.

Presuming Benton's clothes were in the suitcases, what had Ginevra intended to do with them? If meant for a charity shop, why lock them? The charity shop wouldn't take locked cases, would they?

Was she planning to sell them or to give them to a friend? Benton's clothes had been expensive and worth passing on. But to whom? And if there was such a friend, then he'd have to be able to unlock the cases, wouldn't he? Or she? A second-hand clothes shop might be glad to take Benton's clothing.

Ho, hum. If Bea were Ginevra, planning to pass the cases on to someone else, she would put the keys in an envelope, possibly writing the name of the person on the outside … and put the envelope in her handbag, ready to hand over.

That wasn't a very helpful scenario. Bea couldn't very well ask Ginevra to turn out her handbag. No.

Start again. Stand in the middle of the room, with the imaginary keys in your hand, and look around. There was no safe in the house, was there? So where would Ginevra leave the keys for the time being?

This was an elderly house which had originally been provided with fireplaces in the larger bedrooms. The fireplace in this room had been bricked in and wallpapered over, but the mantelpiece still existed. Some of Ginevra's beauty products had drifted there, and a couple of china ornaments. Bea wondered which of the two women in Benton's life had chosen them: Ginevra or Dilys? There was a figurine of a lady holding up her skirt with one hand while smiling, unfocused, into the distance. The other was a pottery lamb in pink. Pink! Dilys's choice.

The top half of the lamb lifted off. It was, in effect, a small pot, intended to house the odd safety pin.

There were two small keys inside. Eureka!

Bea knelt down by the first suitcase and managed to unlock it. Clothing, casual; underwear; shoes. The scent of aftershave. Bea sniffed, half closing her eyes. No, no scent of cigarettes. She hadn't thought Benson was a smoker, and his clothes confirmed that. She'd noted a trace of cigarette smoke in the hall when they first entered. Presumably, Ginevra was the smoker? Must check.

No paperwork or diary. Some well-polished shoes. Bea could imagine Dilys polishing her master's shoes every morning before he went off to work.

Bea locked the first suitcase again and tried the other one.

Ah. Business suits. Yes!

Ginevra had probably gone through the pockets …?

Trouser pockets: yes, she had. Nothing in the first pair.

Benton was supposed to have kept a memory stick in the breast pocket of his jacket, wasn't he? Nothing in this one.

Time was marching, etcetera. If Ginevra came up to find Bea searching through her brother's things there would be an unpleasant scene. Ginevra had given Leon permission to look, but she'd wanted to see anything which they might find. Ginevra was capable, in Bea's estimation, of demanding a king's ransom for a memory stick which might have a cash value, and Leon needed it to find Dilys and to sort out the affairs of H & B. Maybe more than H & B. Maybe he was really interested in what was happening at Holland Holdings …

Bea began to sweat. What had Benton been wearing last time she'd seen him? She couldn't remember. Navy with a pin stripe, perhaps? Might be. Ah. Something small and hard at the bottom of this last pocket.

She drew out the memory stick with a sigh of relief.

Now, what to do? Tell Ginevra?

Um. There arose a question of right and wrong. Ginevra didn't want anything taken out of the house without her permission, and her brother's memory stick must be high on her list. Had she the right to make such a demand? Probably not. Of course, if it turned out that Ginevra did indeed inherit the house and its contents, then Bea would have to own up and give it to her. On the other hand, if it had H & B business on it, then Ginevra had no right to it whatever.

The question was how to get it out of the house without Ginevra seeing it. If she tried to put it in her handbag downstairs, Ginevra would be on to her like a ton of bricks, and she had no pockets in her skirt.

Possibly, she was overreacting. But instinct screamed not to let Ginevra have it … yet.

Oh well, every woman knows that, in times of stress, the bra is the best place in which to hide something.

There were sounds of movement down below. The washing machine had finished its programme. How did Ginevra propose to dry the bedding? Over the banisters? In which case, she'd be coming upstairs any minute now. Perhaps she had a drier downstairs as well as a washing machine? Bea couldn't remember, but fervently hoped so.

Trying not to rush, she refolded the clothes she'd taken out of the suitcase and replaced them. Turned the key in the lock.

She'd been kneeling on the floor. Got up, wincing. Knees …

She hobbled over to the mantelpiece and replaced the keys in the lamb's pot.

Now for the loo. She really did need to go, now. Into the bathroom. Yes, it did still smell of that dreadful night.

‘Bea, are you all right up there?' Leon, calling up the stairs.

‘So sorry, Leon. I can't seem to … Just one more go and I'll be right with you.'

Flush the loo. Wash her hands.

Tidy her hair. She was having a bad hair day. She was overdue for a cut and blow dry, and for a manicure. The skin around her left eye was still yellow rather than peach. Oh well, let Ginevra preen herself in the knowledge that she was both beautiful and young, whereas Bea was neither … today. Tomorrow, Bea told herself firmly, was another matter.

She made her way down the stairs, holding on to the banister, and into the living room.

‘Feeling better now?' Ginevra didn't even bother to meet Bea's eyes.

‘Sorry to be so long.' Bea avoided answering the question.

‘All right, now?' said Leon. ‘I've called a minicab so that we can take these bags off Ginevra's hands. All right, my dear?' He smiled down at Ginevra, who managed to blink tears into her eyes as she drew his head down so she could kiss his cheek.

Bea registered the fact that Ginevra was perfectly willing to make a conquest of this much older man, but was not going to allow him her lips or to think he could take advantage of her, ahem, body.

They retrieved their coats and Bea's handbag before loading the boys' clothing and toys into the taxi. A tight squeeze. Leon got out his smartphone, frowning at the emails which appeared on it.

Bea didn't approve of people using their phones in company, so gave a tiny cough.

‘What did you find out?'

‘Mm?' He gave her half his attention. ‘No paperwork to be seen. Diaries, everything gone. She says they even emptied the waste paper basket. You've got the memory stick, though?' He held out his hand for it, his eyes still on his emails.

‘I'll have a quick look at what's on it first, see if there's anything which would help us find Dilys, and then I'll let you have it. I know you need the information straight away so I'll put it in the post to you tonight, or forward you the contents by email if you wish.'

‘Mm?' His eyes were on his smartphone. ‘My brother is sending a car to pick us up. He wants to see you, straight away.'

Bea was not amused. ‘You forget, I have an agency to run and –' a glance at her watch – ‘I have people coming in to see me this afternoon. What's more, I haven't had any lunch, even if you have.'

‘I'm sure he can get someone to rustle up a sandwich for you. I'll tell him we're on our way, shall I?'

Words such as: ‘Tell him to stuff it,' hovered on the tip of her tongue, but she bit them back. ‘Tell him I am otherwise engaged. Which I am.'

He raised his eyes from his smartphone for a second. ‘He won't like it.'

‘I dare say. Now, what did you learn from Ginevra?'

‘Mm? Just let me text him …' He did so and looked up, but kept the smartphone in his hand. ‘Not much. She says she's twenty-three years old—'

Twenty-nine?

‘But I'd add a few more years to that. Shrewd businesswoman on a small scale, a partner in a fashion boutique, doing well, she says, even in these difficult times. They have a van for deliveries. Not married but keeping her eyes open for a “significant other”. Rents a one-bedroom flat over some shops. Probably not above cheating the Income Tax people if she can. She had her laptop up and running. Her spreadsheet looked competent enough. Says she hasn't seen much of Benton in recent years, owing to some disagreement about dividing the assets when their parents died. She didn't think much of Dilys, whom she'd only met a couple of times.'

‘Does she smoke?'

‘What? No, of course not.'

Hm. So she'd had a visitor who smoked? The partner?
‘What did you make of her personally?'

‘Some bodywork has been done, particularly breasts. Maybe bottom as well. She's a natural blonde but not as fair as she makes out. Some Botox. Not above using her body to influence people.'

That was a pretty acute judgement, and Bea gave him full marks for it.

He held up his smartphone again. ‘My brother wants to make you an offer you won't wish to refuse.'

‘To pull his chestnuts out of the fire? How many times do I have to say I'm not interested in taking on H & B? Anyway, why isn't he trying to get you to do it?'

‘I have other fish to fry.'

‘Such as?'

He ignored that. ‘He's not going to give up, you know.'

‘Tough.' They turned into the street in which Bea lived. She leaned forward, scanning the parked traffic for a biker. None in sight. Good.

He held out his hand. ‘The memory stick.'

‘Do you promise faithfully to tell me if there's anything there to indicate what's happened to Dilys?'

‘Promise.'

She wasn't sure she believed him, but undid the top two buttons of her coat and fished inside layers of clothing for the memory stick. And handed it to him.

His eyes had followed her every movement. He grinned. ‘Do that again!'

She had to laugh. ‘Certainly not.'

His phone rang. He listened, shut it off. ‘There's a hire car waiting outside your house to pick us up.'

‘I've got to get back to work. Toss out the bags, and I'll get one of the agency girls to help me get them down to the office. I'll see they get to the nearest charity shop in due course.'

Surrounded by plastic bags, she watched him get into a luxurious car and be driven away. For a fleeting second, she wished she'd gone with him … and then she picked up the two largest bags and hauled them to the stairs which led down to the agency rooms.

‘W
hat do you think you're playing at?'

Someone – a man – sounded really angry.

Panting, Bea drew the two bags down the stairs and dumped them in the big office. She didn't bother to see who was shouting at her, but gestured to Carrie. ‘Can you help me with the rest?' She was tired and cold and hungry and whoever it was who was shouting could jolly well wait!

Before she'd reached the top of the steps, Carrie had caught up with her. ‘It's the inspector, the nice one, except that he's in a temper today. He's been waiting for you. Let me help you.'

Bea nodded her thanks, holding tightly on to the railing as she descended the stairs once more. ‘Can you find somewhere to put these for the time being, Carrie?'

‘Sure. There's been some phone calls, but they can wait. I put—'

‘A bag lady is it now?' Inspector Durrell, normally of an equable temperament, was spitting mad. ‘I've been waiting for—'

Bea lost it. Pushing the inspector before her into her own office, she rapped out, ‘You want to know where I've been? I've been trying to find out where a poor abused girl might have been dumped by her bastard of a husband. That is, if she's still alive, which I know you couldn't care less about, but
I
do because someone has to care about the defenceless ones of this world who drop through the net. And yes, I know her husband's dead. Although I'm not usually one of the Hang 'Em and Flog 'Em brigade, and I am quite aware that I ought to be wailing over the death of his sons – though, if you'll pardon my French, they were the sort who could have done with the birch being applied to their pampered little bottoms – I would very much like to … Oh!'

One of her most august – and elderly – clients was sitting on Bea's settee, reading a magazine, with a pot of tea on a tray beside her. This was a client you would normally speak to in subdued tones, remembering to use the correct form of address. She opened events, was a patron of this and that, worked hard for various charities. She and her husband were national treasures. Normally, the lady would have had her personal assistant telephone Bea or email her if she required attention. So why had she arrived, unannounced and without an appointment?

Carrie was wringing her hands. ‘Her Ladyship understood you had an appointment elsewhere, but said she'd wait.'

‘Thank you, Carrie.' Bea tried to haul back her temper and return it to the box in which it was normally kept. Only, there was the inspector on her heels, looking thunderous, consulting his watch. Bea closed her eyes, counted to five, opened them again. Was she under control? Halfway.

The inspector exhaled. ‘When you have a moment, Mrs Abbot?' And to the visitor, ‘Detective Inspector Durrell, requesting the favour of an interview with Mrs Abbot, which is –' he bared his teeth in what was meant to be a smile – ‘rather urgent.'

Her Ladyship seemed amused, rather than annoyed. ‘Please, don't mind me. I've been out shopping all morning and would be delighted to rest quietly until Mrs Abbot is free. I'd heard she champions people who have no voice of their own. Who knows when any one of us might need her?'