False Money (3 page)

Supper was minted lamb chops, mashed potatoes and fresh green beans, followed by a dish of stewed plums with cream. Bea did it justice, while trying not to be irritated by Maggie chatting away on her mobile throughout. Maggie had a number of friends in their mid to late twenties: all in good jobs, all playing the field, and all far from ready to commit themselves to any permanent relationship.

To Bea's mind, none of them had grown up yet. The one currently on the phone seemed to have got drunk and promised to go out with her brother's best friend, or maybe it was his uncle. Bea couldn't work it out.

Maggie came off the phone only to have it ring again, and this time it was work; the tiler she'd been using. Apparently, he was making excuses about work not being done to standard, or time, or something. Maggie slipped from girlfriend mode into that of employer. With a sharp edge. Who did he think he was kidding? Didn't she know him of old? Had he gone to the races instead of working? She forked food into her mouth while giving the man a hard time, only relenting when he promised to work overtime next day. Without charging her for the extra hours.

Finally Maggie killed the call, and before the phone could ring again, Bea said, ‘I know you're going out to meet your friend but, before you disappear, did you know this girl Tomi that Chris is in a flap about?'

‘Of course. She's the star of his film. Stunning, in an unusual way. I mean, not one of your anorexic blondes, which is what he usually goes for. Gives one hope he might eventually grow up, if you see what I mean.'

‘She's disappeared with his library books. He says. What do you think?'

A shrug. ‘It's not like her, but if she's found someone more gorgeous than the self-centred and oh-so-boring Harry, then maybe . . . ? Can one blame her?'

‘You've met him?'

‘No, but she told me all about him.'

‘She's also left her flatmate without paying her rent.'

Maggie sucked her forefinger. ‘Mm. Not like her. You don't really mind my going out tonight, do you? I'll get up early tomorrow to finish the estimate for the flat in Earls Court. I've got all the figures in, bar for the new kitchen cupboard doors, but I doubt if we'll get the job because the client thinks in pennies instead of pounds.'

‘I trust you for that. Would you have trusted Tomi to pay her share of the rent on time?'

‘Yes, of course.' She screwed up her face. ‘At least, I suppose there might have been some circumstance that . . . Only, I can't think what it might be. Her people went back to Nigeria, I think. Both doctors, both earning good salaries there. I seem to remember they wanted her to go back with them, marry a Nigerian, and so on. But she'd have said if that was what she was going to do, wouldn't she? Worked out her notice and all that. At least have told Harry, or left notes for people. No, you're right. It doesn't make sense.' She looked at her watch; a man's watch with lots of dials on it. Maggie was running late. She gave a little scream. ‘I must go.'

Once left alone, Bea fished out the telephone number Chris had left her for Tomi's flatmate and dialled it. ‘Miss Drobny? Have I got the name right? Your number was given me by a friend of Tomi's, who—'

The phone quacked indignantly. ‘I don't want to hear about—'

‘I understand she's gone missing under mysterious circumstances—'

‘Hmph. Is a new boyfriend something to be mysterious about?' Not pleased, and not British, though the accent was slight.

‘Not like her, though.'

A pause. ‘Well, I thought that, too.' A middle-European voice. Polish accent? No. Further south. Bosnian, possibly? Not all that young. Decisive.

‘The thing is,' Bea said, trying to be tactful, ‘that people are worried about her and have brought their troubles to me. Someone always gets dumped on to sort things out, don't they? Her friends can't understand her not letting you know she was going away and not paying her rent.'

‘That is true. It is not right.'

‘Not at all what you'd have expected from her. I agree. Her friends have asked me to call you, see if I could help in any way—'

‘Are you going to pay her rent? It is due a week ago. I cannot afford to keep the room vacant, waiting for her to return.'

‘You've been to an agency to find someone else?'

‘I put an advert in the paper.'

‘Suppose I ask her friends if they would agree to pay her rent for a couple of weeks. Would that help? I mean, if she really has gone off for a holiday, she can repay them when she gets back.'

‘Very well. You give me a cheque for a month's rent and I keep her room. I am only this minute back from work and must cook supper. I will expect you in one hour, hour and a half. I am in the basement flat. Understood?'

‘I'll be there.' It would be worth paying the rent to have a look at Tomi's belongings. If her passport had gone and the library books were still there – Chris probably hadn't looked for them properly – then she'd gone off with a boyfriend. If her passport was still there, and there was no sign of the library books, then . . . Bea decided to think about that later.

She was putting the dirty dishes from supper into the dishwasher when the phone rang. ‘Mother, is that you?'

Who else would it be? It was Max, her self-important Member of Parliament son, who was married to that vacuous blonde, Nicole. The marriage had had its ups and downs, but currently was in an ‘up' period. Bea hoped.

Unfortunately, Max's recently produced son and heir was depriving them of sleep and patience. When Bea had suggested that a change of formula might be a good idea, she'd been informed with angry tears that she was completely out of date, had no idea of how to bring up a baby in this day and age, and they would thank her to keep her mouth shut on the subject. Bea was well aware that each generation thought they, and only they, knew the right way to bring up babies, but she found it disturbing that little Pippin did not appear to be putting on weight.

Nicole and Max were completely under the spell of the latest Bringing up Baby guru, who was making a fortune by telling new mothers what to do. In consequence Nicole now lived by the clock, feeding baby when he wanted to sleep, anxiously putting him down to sleep when he wanted to play. And so on. Some babies thrived under this routine. Little Pippin didn't like it. He didn't like the formula that replaced mother's milk, either. Result: one hungry, dissatisfied baby.

Nicole refused to allow Bea even to touch baby because, she said, he needed to bond with his mother, but she found her mother-in-law useful to do all the jobs around the place that baby's routine prevented her from doing herself. Bea had been over there only that morning to do the shopping and clean the flat while Nicole tried to rest between the short times she allowed herself in the baby's routine.

To Bea's suggestion that Nicole should employ a nanny for a couple of months, the girl replied with yet more tears that no, she would never, repeat never, abandon her child to the attentions of a nanny. Besides, Nicole said, it would give entirely the wrong impression to Max's constituents. A privileged background, said Nicole, cut no ice back in the Midlands.

Now Max was joining in the battle. On Nicole's side, of course. ‘Mother, I really thought you had more sense than to upset Nicole. What do you know about bringing up babies nowadays? I suppose you thought you were trying to help, but all you've managed to do is make Nicole feel really unwell. She was in tears when I got home, and that set Pippin off and—'

Bea knew what she had to say, and said it. ‘I'm so sorry, Max. I do know that what works for one baby doesn't work for another.'

‘Right. Well, I suppose you thought you were helping. The thing is, we're missing his toy mouse. Nicole says he had it this morning before you came. Did you tidy it away somewhere?'

Bea hadn't thought Pippin was particularly attached to the mouse, which was blue and red and hardly a thing of beauty and a joy for ever.

‘Er, yes. I mean, no. I found it in the pocket of my coat when I got back home. I fell over it this morning when I was carting the shopping back up to the flat and must have popped it into my pocket by mistake.' All that lifting had made her back ache, but Max wouldn't be interested to hear about that. ‘I'll drop it back to you tomorrow.'

Bea had advised Nicole to attach all his toys to his recliner so they couldn't get lost, but Nicole believed in total freedom for her son to throw things around . . . which kept her tied to the baby's side. Not a good idea, in Bea's opinion.

‘He won't go to sleep without it,' said Max, which might possibly be true. Bea could hear him wailing at that very moment. ‘If you bring it over straight away—'

‘I've got an appointment. Can't you fetch it?'

‘Certainly not. I'm leaving for my constituency within the hour. You know I have a Saturday morning surgery there, and I won't be back till Sunday evening at the earliest. As for Nicole, she's exhausted, thanks to you upsetting her.'

‘Has she tried changing his formula?' asked Bea, greatly daring.

‘What? No, of course not. Here . . . Nicole, you'd better take the phone because I've got to go, yes, yes, I must. Yes, I know all that, but you must realize . . . Anyway, mother's found Mouse.'

Nicole's voice came on, tearful, complaining. ‘I do realize it's awkward, and of course he's got other toys, but he just won't settle and I'm sure he would if he had Mouse. If you've got it, couldn't you just bring it over? I've just got to get some sleep before his ten o'clock feed or I don't know what I shall do!'

Bea loved her little grandson. One look into his blue eyes, and she'd been his slave. She longed for the day when Nicole would allow her to play with the child, or feed him; or even bathe him. So far Bea was only allowed to help by doing the shopping and cooking and generally keeping the flat tidy, which she did when she had cover for herself at work. But go over there now? Hadn't she done enough for them for one day?

Nicole sobbed into the phone. ‘It's not that I don't love the little rascal, but I'm not as strong as I might be.' For that, read ‘not as young as I might be'.

‘I'll be with you in about an hour, maybe hour and a half,' said Bea, slamming the dishwasher shut. Upon which the doorbell rang. ‘Must go, Nicole. Someone at the door.'

Chris had presented her with a bouquet, but Chris's father clearly thought that a bottle of bubbly was a better bet. Had he come to badger her into looking for Tomi, too? Bea didn't appreciate all this pressure. ‘Look, I'm going out in a minute. Driving. So I can't drink.'

He walked straight past her into the sitting room. ‘This won't take long. And I'm not driving, so I can drink.'

She fetched a glass for him from the kitchen while he popped the cork. CJ – as he was commonly known – was about her own age, but looked as if the faintest of breezes might blow him away. He was a grey man; grey hair, grey suit – rather a good suit actually. An unremarkable presence if he wished to blend into the background, but an incisive profile if he wanted to take charge of the conversation.

‘I thought you were too busy even to exchange the time of day with your son,' said Bea, feeling sour.

He grunted – which might mean anything – and poured champagne.

She said, ‘I haven't even had a chance to look at Chris's DVD yet.'

He held out his hand for her copy, slotted it in under the television set, and pressed buttons. Picking up his glass, he retired to the settee, still holding on to the remote control.

Bea rolled her eyes. Men who walked in and commandeered her remote control were, to her mind, overbearing brutes. That included her son Max, who believed that, even today, a woman couldn't be trusted to change a television channel.

The credits rolled. A girl in a white sweater and jeans was helping an elderly woman to dress, in what looked like a council flat. Then she was playing a violin, busking in the open air and collecting money in the violin case laid on the ground before her. She wasn't a beauty, but had an interesting face. Dark-skinned for a European, fair for a Nigerian. Tomi, presumably.

Each scene was short, lasting only long enough to register what the girl was doing and then passing on. One minute Tomi was teaching a small child to play the violin, then – dressed in a workmanlike overall and cap – she was dishing out school dinners. The clock registered time was passing. The girl, now back in sweater and jeans, was rehearsing in a flat with some other musicians, then playing at a party, wearing a long red dress. Back to the council flat. The violin was in its case in one corner, while Tomi – back in white sweater and jeans – fed a paraplegic woman in a wheelchair. Finally, Tomi was in evening dress with her violin case under arm, returning home after an evening out, fitting her key into the door. Was it all a dream? Which was reality?

The DVD ended. ‘Interesting,' said Bea, ‘if confusing.'

CJ switched off the power. ‘I've never met the girl. Have you?'

‘No.'

‘Chris wants her for his next film. Something about people having the wrong shadows. Sounds weird. Might be just unusual enough to work.'

Bea tried to be tactful. ‘Why are you concerned? If he doesn't find her, he loses his star performer, abandons film-making and has to go back to uni. That's what you want him to do, isn't it?'

‘We're magnetic poles apart, him and I.' He turned the television on, found a football game, muted the sound. ‘I thought you could do a bit of digging. If you could prove the girl's gone off with a delectable hunk or returned to Nigeria . . . ?'