False Money (12 page)

Babel. But after the champagne had been drunk and Maggie's individual pizzas consumed, the crowd dispersed; Maggie and Zander went back to work, as did Miss Brook. CJ took Chris away, and the house was quiet again.

Some of Oliver's belongings had been whisked up to his room on the top floor, but some had been left in the hall. Bea toiled upstairs with a box of books, to find Oliver standing at the window, surrounded by piles of belongings which were clearly not going to fit into the available storage space. He turned to her and held out his arms. She hugged him tightly. There were tears in his eyes.

He said, ‘I never in all my life . . . I never dreamed . . . Such a homecoming. Better than at Christmas, even.'

‘Don't look back. This is your home and we are your family now.' She thought of Max, of her frosty daughter-in-law and tiny grandson, and held back a sigh. In some ways Maggie and Oliver were more of a family to her than her own flesh and blood.

‘I've always called you Mrs Abbot. I can't call you by your Christian name.'

‘I don't care what you call me, as long as you treat this as your home. I was afraid you'd grow out of us. Silly me.' She flicked a tear off her cheek.

He tried to smile. ‘I was afraid you wouldn't want me here any more.'

‘Silly.' She gave him another hug, then looked around her. ‘What are we going to do with all your stuff?'

The phone rang downstairs, and she had to leave him to answer it.

It was Max, who had returned home desperate for Bea to fetch something from the shops for Nicole, who'd gone back to bed to try to catch up on some sleep. He'd tried to get Nicole's mother to come down to look after them for a while, but she was too busy with preparations for some dinner party or other. Was a dinner party more important than one's grandson? Well, really!

‘Yes, of course I understand, Max, and I would come, but not this afternoon. I simply can't get away today.' She started to think how she might manage it. ‘Perhaps if I ask Miss Brook to . . . No, she's got her hands full. I've been out all morning, you see, collecting Oliver from—'

‘I would have thought you'd give me priority.'

‘Yes, I do. I will.' She grimaced, thinking she was going to have to work late again tonight, if she took more time off now. ‘I'll be over as soon as I can, for an hour, no more.'

‘Surely you can do better than that. I wouldn't ask but . . . I can't bear it when Nicole cries, and Pippin just keeps on wailing. I'm at my wits' end.'

Greatly daring, she said, ‘I could get you a day nanny.'

‘You know Nicole can't give him up to anyone else.'

‘I'll see what I can do.' Bea sighed. Replaced the receiver. Rubbed her forehead.

Oliver had come in behind her, noiselessly. ‘Shall I help Miss Brook out for a couple of hours?'

‘No, no. That's not your job now. But I have to go out. It's Pippin, you see.'

‘Let me help. I'd like to. I'll take a look at Maggie's lists, too.'

‘It's your first day back. I wouldn't have thought . . . Anyway, your life must be so different now.'

He laughed. ‘I know which side my bread's buttered. If I don't muck in, I'll get no supper from Maggie, right?'

‘She's out on a big renovation job. It's my turn to cook.'

‘Now I know I'm back. Everyone dashing out in different directions, no time to cook, and nothing in the freezer. So it's my job to organize a takeaway, right?'

‘Nonsense. Maggie and I have been filling the freezer with food prior to your return. There's a big chicken pie with home-made stuffing balls currently defrosting in the kitchen for tonight's supper. If I'm not back in time, would you be a dear and pop it in the oven at six o'clock? Maggie'll do the vegetables when she gets back.'

‘I'm impressed.'

‘Remind me sometime to give you some cooking lessons. No man should be launched on the world without knowing how to boil an egg.'

She picked up her coat, her handbag – where were her keys? Oliver handed them to her. She made it to the hall, hesitated. ‘I suspect Chris might join us and possibly CJ.'

Oliver nodded, making shooing movements. ‘Understood.'

She got to the front door, turned back. ‘And possibly Zander?'

‘Very possibly Zander. We're all going to the pub afterwards. It's Chris's birthday, remember.'

She hit her forehead. ‘I'd forgotten. You're not holding a party?'

‘We're organizing something for later on in the month. Go, Mrs Abbot, go! Before your son rings again.'

She went. At Max's place she tidied, hoovered, and dusted. Did some shopping. Made up Pippin's formula while wishing she had the nerve to substitute a different one; but no, she couldn't do that, could she? Instead, she followed Nicole's instructions to the letter.

With gathering anxiety, she noticed that Pippin was fretful, and not – at least to her eye – putting on weight. And Nicole? Instead of resting, Nicole was either hanging over Pippin's cot or on the phone to her guru, going through a checklist of the regime the baby was supposed to be following. Pippin wailed. Nicole wept.

Bea set her teeth, cleaned the shower tray, took out the rubbish. Another thing; Nicole wasn't eating properly. Bea knew, because she'd done the shopping and the washing up, and although Max might have eaten a takeaway curry, Nicole certainly hadn't.

Bea ironed for half an hour. Nicole was using proper nappies, which was much greener than the expensive nappy pads sold in supermarkets, but was labour intensive. Nicole said all Pippin's nappies must be ironed before use, but it wasn't Nicole who was having to iron them, was it? Surely no one ironed nappies nowadays, did they? Bea almost chucked the iron at her daughter in law. Max was out. Of course.

Finally, Bea said she had to go, and Nicole wept once again. She always seemed to be in tears at the moment.

‘Look, Nicole,' said Bea, trying to moderate her tone from firm to gentle. ‘You're making yourself ill, going on like this. If you go down with a bug or have to be hospitalized, what will Pippin do?'

‘If you'd only help me, I wouldn't get in such a state.'

‘I am helping you. I have been. As much as you will let me help. It's not enough, is it? And I do have my own business to run. Why don't you let me find you someone to come in and look after you every day? Just for a few weeks? Then you can relax and devote yourself to Pippin.'

‘You're saying that I'm a bad mother?'

‘No, of course you're not. I can see you'd lay down your life for Pippin. But—'

‘Then don't interfere. I can't stand it. Every time you come here, you criticize me; maybe not openly, but behind my back to Max.'

Bea held on to her temper. Then she softened. ‘My dear, every grandmother thinks they know best, and of course things change and I'm not up to date with the latest in child care. But I do see that all is not well with you, and Pippin is not putting on weight, is he? Don't you think that—'

‘I'd like you to go now. Please.'

Nicole stood up and went to the front door to let Bea out. So Bea had to go, frustrated, unhappy, not knowing what to do or say. Except pray.
Dear Lord above, help!

She drove back home, slowly and with great care. She was exhausted. There were more showers of rain, and the temperature had dropped. The roads were slushy, the pavements becoming treacherous.

The house was quiet when she let herself in. No Maggie banging around in the kitchen. No messages on the answerphone. She checked that the security grilles were all locked into place and drew curtains against the night.

She descended to the agency rooms, to find them empty. Miss Brook and her team had gone for the day, but someone was talking . . . laughing . . . loudly. In Bea's own office. Ah, of course. Oliver's old office had been taken over by Maggie, so he must be using Bea's. Yes, he was.

Oliver was sitting at her desk, entering data into her computer while listening to Chris, who was striding about, animated, gesturing, full of life. ‘—so you see, it's all to play for, really.'

Oliver grinned at Bea. ‘“Who's been sitting in my chair?” said Mummy Bear.'

Bea hadn't thought she could laugh, but did. ‘We'll get Maggie to move some of her stuff out of your office tomorrow. Her method of filing is to cover every surface in sight with papers, but she actually does most of her work on the kitchen table.'

‘Mrs Abbot, Mrs Abbot!' Chris, bounding up to her. ‘Guess what? Hermia thinks she might be able to swing some funding for me to start my next film.'

Would Hermia fund it herself? N–no, possibly not. But she certainly had access to money. Bea smiled, tried to be bright. ‘That's excellent news, Chris. And, by the way, happy birthday, too.'

Chris was halfway up the stairs. ‘I bought another mobile this afternoon. It's in my overcoat. I think. I'm going to ring around, see how many of the crew might be available.' He disappeared.

Oliver exited the programme he'd been working on and shut down the computer. ‘Mrs Abbot, Miss Brook and I agree you've been overdoing it. Business is in boom time, says Miss Brook. She says you need to take on another part-timer, someone who can keep Maggie's work straight as well as coping with some of the agency work. Oh, and she's forbidden me even to think of doing anything in the office. She seems to think I've suffered a sea change, and that agency work is now beneath me.'

Bea's head was aching. ‘My dear boy; knowing you, you'll do exactly as you please, no matter what anyone says.' She rubbed her forehead, went to look out at the garden . . . except that it was now dark outside. She checked that the safety grille over the windows was locked there as well and drew the curtains.

Oliver straightened some papers on her desk. ‘I've had a quick look at Maggie's lists of names while Chris was yakking at me. You realize that they weren't particularly open with you about taking drugs themselves?'

‘I did wonder, because he's the sort to experiment with anything and everything, just to see what it's like. I'm not sure about Maggie.'

‘Chris has an excellent constitution,' said Oliver. ‘No ill effects. Once he'd experienced this and that and could evaluate the results, he filed the information away and moved on. Maggie tried cannabis, didn't like the results, hasn't tried anything else. Both know where to get drugs from, but won't tell. I . . . Well, it's not my scene.'

Of course not. Oliver was too fastidious. Wouldn't willingly hand control over himself to anyone else. ‘You know who supplied them?'

He pointed to a couple of names, which he'd underlined. ‘I've heard tell. These two names are on most of the lists. CJ rang earlier, said he'd be round to see what I've found, if anything. He's waiting for the result of the autopsies.'

‘Did you know Harry?'

A shrug. ‘I met him at a party once. Not my sort. Tomi said he was just a little boy inside, playing at being grown-up. I couldn't see it myself.' It was a long time since Oliver had grown up. In years he might not match Harry, but in experience, oh yes. ‘He didn't treat Tomi as a person, but as a Barbie doll. Which she wasn't.'

‘How did they meet, do you know?'

‘A party at the top flat above where she lived; they have parties there almost every weekend.'

Ah. Yes, of course. Bea had experienced the fallout from the party in the top flat when she'd called on Miss Drobny.

‘He – they call him “Von”, which I think is a reference to the fact that his parents came from northern Germany originally – works at the BBC, doing stunts. His partner Simone works there too, in the wardrobe department. They know all sorts. One of Chris's old girlfriends knew them, and invited him. Chris took me and Maggie along once, but we didn't last long. He shed the girlfriend, collected Tomi and we all went on to see a comedy turn in a pub somewhere. I never went back, but Chris did, I think. It was too noisy for me.'

‘Interlocking circles,' said Bea. ‘What's the common denominator?'

‘Girls and boys come out to play; have fun, don't take it seriously. Bring a bottle; don't make a scene or throw up till you get outside. See the girls home safely, and if you strike lucky, make sure you both know what you're doing.'

‘So you can be invited to one party by a friend, and the next week you know of another party somewhere else, and maybe invite the first host on to the next party?'

‘You probably wouldn't do that, no. But you might see some of the same people at the next venue. Some people never host a party. Others keep open house every weekend. Quite often a crowd meet up at a pub and move on to wherever there's word that they're welcome. Sometimes the news of a party goes up on Facebook, and then hundreds may come. That's not usual, but it does happen.'

‘In private houses?'

‘Usually not, because that's when people you don't know gatecrash and houses get trashed. In the summer you get outdoor gigs, in a field somewhere if the weather's good.'

‘Out at Fulmer? Is that why Tomi was left in a lane near Fulmer?'

‘I hadn't heard of one out that way, no. Chris, Maggie and I went out to a pub in Fulmer last summer a couple of times. Pretty place. Quiet. Good beer.'

‘Tomi wasn't with you?'

He hesitated. ‘I think she came with us once, but I didn't always want to socialize, so she might have gone out with them at other times as well. But that's not the sort of party you're thinking of, is it?'