False Money (16 page)

‘We didn't yell, exactly.'

Bea ignored them, to pat Brian's hand. His hand was warm. No gloves. A macho man? Or trying to be? ‘I'm so sorry. Would you like a sherry?'

Brian softened visibly. ‘Well, I must say . . . Perhaps a small . . . ? I couldn't think what was going on. They practically kidnapped me outside my own front door.'

Bea handed him a glass of sherry and indicated to the boys that they should make themselves scarce. ‘We're almost neighbours, then. You know Oliver and Chris from the Health Club, I gather? I'm afraid I don't take any exercise at all. Isn't that awful?'

Brian preened himself. ‘Oh well. You probably did when you were younger.'

Bea restrained herself from slapping him and treated him to a wide-eyed look of admiration. Which he accepted. He drank his sherry and almost smiled. Looking around, he observed, ‘Quite a nice gaff, isn't it?'

‘Sure is,' said Bea, holding on to her smile. ‘I must apologize again for the boys' behaviour. Their friend was a tragic loss. You are a man of the world –' was she overdoing it? Probably, but he was enjoying the flattery – ‘and can understand how upsetting it is to lose someone you love.'

‘Of course, of course.' He sipped sherry, allowed himself to relax, let his overcoat slide off his shoulders. ‘It was just, being attacked like that . . .'

Bea shook her head, commiserating. ‘Dreadful. Quite frightening, in fact.'

‘Oh, well. I wasn't frightened.'

‘Of course not. But they shouldn't have acted so high-handedly.'

‘It wasn't even as if I could tell them anything.'

‘Some more sherry? Yes? I quite understand. She was not one of your circle of friends.'

‘That's it. Seen her around, of course. Seen the film, rather good in its way. Amateur, of course, but quite promising, I'd have said.'

‘A striking looking girl.'

He nodded. ‘Graceful, too. Perhaps a trifle on the skinny side. I like them, you know, a bit more . . .' He waggled his eyebrows.

Bea set her teeth. Of course he did. ‘There she was, helping her friend out, carrying this great pile of books for him out of the library—'

‘Is that what he said? No, no. A couple of books only. She tried to put them into her bag, one of those huge bags girls carry about with them nowadays, you know? But they were too big. The books, I mean.'

‘The blue bag?'

A frown. ‘No, green. Or perhaps it was brown. I was wearing my new dark glasses. Could have been blue, I suppose, but I thought it was green.'

‘The sun was in your eyes. Of course.'

‘No, I was facing north. She came out of the library with Chris. I know Chris, of course. Thought he might introduce me, as a matter of fact, but he didn't seem to want to. He was facing the sun so he moved round a bit, and the girl said something about seeing someone she knew. She waved to him and off she went.'

‘Straight into the traffic? Oh dear.'

A gentle laugh. ‘I didn't hear any grinding of brakes or shouts. No bumps. She wasn't run over or anything. No, no. She must have got to the other side of the road without causing an accident. Someone said she died of a drug overdose.'

‘Oh, you know what “they” are. She was murdered, I'm sorry to say. The police think they've found the person who did it.'

‘That's all right, then.' He put down his empty glass, shrugged himself back into his overcoat, and stood up. ‘I suppose she got in with the wrong crowd. A sad story, but that sort of thing can happen to young girls who come over here, not knowing the score. And now—'

‘You must be going. Of course.'

‘If you can keep those two clowns from attacking me again?'

‘I promise. And if at any time anything occurs to you . . . ?'

‘I'll be in touch. Excellent sherry.'

Bea held on to her smile till she'd got him out of the front door, and then closed her eyes, went rigid and screamed. Silently.

Chris and Oliver watched her from the kitchen doorway, eyes rounded.

‘Mrs Abbot, you're brilliant!' said Chris.

Oliver grinned. ‘You'd have made a wonderful prosecuting counsel.'

‘No, I wouldn't. We didn't learn anything.'

Chris sighed. ‘We learned he didn't know anything.' He slumped against the wall. ‘I did so hope he'd seen something. Now what do we do?'

‘Supper's up,' said Maggie. ‘For three. Chris, go home.'

‘Chris, before you go,' said Bea. ‘Did Tomi take a phone call while you were in the library?'

He put on his most angelic expression. ‘The public are requested not to use their mobile phones in the library.' It was odds on he'd been told off for doing just that himself.

Bea almost laughed. ‘Well, did she get a call while you were in the pub earlier?'

‘Um, yes. Now you come to mention it, she did. She didn't say who it was from, and I didn't ask. Is it important?'

‘It might have been the killer making an appointment to pick her up. Otherwise, how would he have known where to find her?'

‘Ah. Makes sense. I'll tell my father, shall I?'

Maggie shrieked at him. ‘Chris, go home!'

Chris went.

After supper Bea told herself that it was all wrong that she was at odds with her son and daughter-in-law. Perhaps she herself really was out of date and didn't know the best way to bring up a baby. She tried scolding herself.

What do you think you're playing at, upsetting Nicole like this? Is it worth it? Particularly since you're not getting your point across. Wouldn't it be better to apologize and eat humble pie, and even crawl, in order to maintain good relations?

She lifted the phone off the hook, hesitated, and put it back again. She strode about the room. She faced her husband's portrait and asked him, ‘Well, what would you do?'

He seemed to smile back at her. He seemed to be saying that she knew very well what she ought to do, and if it meant apologizing for doing something which she didn't feel sorry about, then she'd better just get on with it.

She had shut the curtains against the night – a nasty, wet, sleety night. The central heating was keeping the house at a pleasant temperature. The side lamps cast a warm glow over the old furniture. Everything within was as it should be – except for her relationship with her son and his wife – and the baby.

She lifted the phone and pressed buttons. Max answered. ‘Oh, it's you, Mother. What do you want now? I've a very important meeting on tonight, and I ought to be on my way this very minute.'

‘I just wanted to know—' In the very meekest of tones.

‘Haven't you done enough damage? Nicole's so upset she's had to take a sleeping pill, which means I've had to look after my son.'

‘Won't you allow me to help?'

‘We've asked you to help, but when you come here you make more trouble than you're worth.'

‘I am trying.'

‘Very. Yes.' He put the phone down.

Bea put the phone down and stared into a future cut off from contact with her family. Her throat ached. Perhaps she was going down with something.

TEN

C
J arrived just as Bea and Maggie were clearing up after supper the following day. Oliver was on the phone, planning to go out with Zander for a jazz session. Maggie said she might join them or not. She wasn't sure.

‘A word?' CJ managed to cut Bea out and take her to the sitting room.

‘News?'

‘Can you spare an hour to visit someone with me? I've traced the telephone number Tomi wrote on the back of her agreement. The phone belonged to a man who lost it some months ago, he's not sure where. He thinks he may have left it in a taxi. No wonder you got no reply.

‘“Leo's” real name's Duncan Wylde. He works for a big firm of accountants and has been out of the country for a while, financing and refinancing various businesses that are in trouble. He only got back yesterday, and he picked up the message I'd left on his landline this morning. He phoned me back to say that the agreement we found couldn't possibly have anything to do with his friends' tragic deaths. When I pressed him, he said it was a fun thing a group of them had decided to do for charity. I asked for details. He said he couldn't give them without receiving permission from the rest of the group. I asked him to get permission. He rang me back an hour ago to say he'd be willing to talk to me about it this evening. I need a witness.'

Bea sought for her handbag. ‘Your car or mine?'

Duncan Wylde lived in a large first floor flat in South Kensington. Built of red brick, the five-storey terraces boasted tiny balconies in front of tall windows and cavernous porticoes to each doorway. The buildings formed three sides of a square around an iron-railed enclosure which called itself a garden and which probably looked at its prettiest now, with snow capping the trees and shrubs within. Pricey. Exclusive.

Duncan was also pricey. He had the fresh-scrubbed look of a schoolboy under male pattern high-forehead baldness. His hair was taffy coloured and well cut. His skin was clear of acne, his eyes a washed-out blue. He was just above medium height and well enough built, but a tenor rather than a bass. He was dressed to City standards and wore a gold signet ring on the little finger of his left hand. His shoes were highly polished, ditto his teeth.

CJ introduced Bea, explaining how she'd tried the number given for Leo, in her search for Tomi.

‘Tomi. Ah. May I take your coats?' Duncan's taste in decor leaned to the antique rather than the modern, which was something of a surprise. Maybe the antiques had been inherited and were too valuable to dispose of? The doors of a lacquered Chinese cabinet stood open to reveal a number of bottles and an array of cut glass. ‘May I offer you a drink? No? You won't mind if I do?'

He gestured them to comfortable, overstuffed chairs and poured himself a large whisky. Gulped down about half. Set the tumbler down on a coaster so as not to mark the patina of a mahogany table. Seated himself. Avoided their eyes.