False Money (7 page)

But no. She had a better idea. ‘Sorry, Chris, I'm not insured for you to drive. If you insist on this wild goose chase, I will drive and you will tell me where we're going.'

He gave in with a bad grace and instructed her to twist and turn through back streets until she wasn't entirely sure where they were. Somewhere north of the Bayswater Road was the best she could do.

Ah, a mews. Gentrified. Expensive. As she parked the car, he got out to ring a doorbell beside some closed garage doors. Some of the original mews buildings had been modified, adapting what had originally been intended for use as coach houses into garages, and later on into ground-floor living rooms. Some – not many – had retained the space to garage their owners' cars. As this one had.

Chris indicated a low-slung sports car parked nearby. ‘Hermia's.'

‘Won't it be awkward, asking him about Tomi, if Hermia's there?'

He shrugged. The door opened.

‘What the—! Get the—!'A tall man in a dressing gown tried to close the door, till Chris put his foot in it.

This was Harry, presumably. A cut-glass accent, curly blonde-to-red hair, bony face. Late twenties? Bea could imagine him looking down his nose from under a Guards helmet. Officer type, definitely.

Harry made a second attempt to close the door. Chris leaned on it, smiling slightly, but not in a friendly way. ‘We need a word.'

‘And who might you be?' Harry was tall enough to look down on Bea.

‘My name is Mrs Abbot and I'm also trying to find Tomi. Chris thinks you might be able to help.'

‘Who is it, Harry?' A voice from above. Roedean? Also crystal clear, but warm. Not a soprano, but an alto.

‘Chris and some woman looking for Tomi.'

‘Oh?' Denim-clad legs appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Well, don't let the cold in. Come on up.'

A tiny hall, carpeted stairs leading to the first floor, Spy cartoons on the walls. Harry led them up the stairs and into a small living-room overlooking the mews. Furnishings by a good department store; John Lewis, perhaps? The walls had been painted a warm apricot; there were matching low leather chairs and settee, a large TV on the wall, and Scandinavian rugs on a pale carpet. Newspapers had been strewn about the place; a mobile phone was at the ready. Glass coffee table, of course. Coffee mugs and a cafetière. The surface of the coffee table could have done with some attention. Nothing shows dust like a glass table top.

The girl was something else. No, not a girl; mid twenties, perhaps. Tallish, but stocky rather than slim. Minimum make-up, dark hair cut in a severe bob. She reminded Bea of Miss Drobny; perhaps it was her air of knowing exactly what she was doing? Not pretty, but striking. Her nose a trifle large? A Jewish background?

She was wearing an expensive heavy sweater in mottled grey and white, denims, and beautifully cut brown boots. A soft fawn leather jacket had been tossed over a chair nearby. Money.

Harry picked up a mug of coffee, without offering any to his guests, and threw himself into a chair. ‘So what now? Has the silly girl turned up at last?'

Chris ground his teeth, but replied in an even tone, ‘No. We're all worried about her. So why aren't you?'

Harry shrugged, sending Hermia a glance which invited her to be amused by this charade. ‘So what? And did you have to bring your mother with you?'

This stung, as it was meant to do. If Harry knew anything about Chris, he'd have known his mother had died young.

Chris held on to his temper. ‘I asked Mrs Abbot to come because she's been through Tomi's things and found her passport, which proves she didn't go to France. Don't be afraid; I won't hit you again.'

An insult that also hit home. The mug of coffee Harry was holding jerked, and he swore, shaking hot liquid off his hand.

Had Chris – who was not all that tall, or heavy – actually managed to land a blow on Harry? Was that a reddish graze on Harry's chin? Bea flicked a glance at the girl, who looked amused.

Harry reddened. ‘Diddums, then. Has his ickle bunny girl deserted him?'

Chris moved his shoulders within his jacket, but kept his temper. ‘Tomi was special, but never my girlfriend. You ought to know that. You went out with her for what – three months? As soon as the film won a prize.'

Harry contrived a laugh, inviting Hermia to share his amusement. ‘A five-minute sensation. Yes, she was an amusing little totty to have around for a while, but no one could be serious about her. Or you. I hear you dropped out of college to make your little video, using money you'd borrowed from your father. Not much of a future in that, is there?'

‘Oh,' said Hermia, frowning. More to herself than anyone else. ‘So you're
that
Chris, are you?'

Chris wasn't looking at her, but concentrating on Harry. ‘Look, Tomi's missing. I know she texted you to say she was taking off to France with a friend, but she couldn't have gone because her passport's still here, and she's not picking up messages left on her mobile.'

‘Gone back to her roots, I suppose. Like a rabbit to its burrow. Sudan, Nigeria, Sierra Leone? Take your pick.'

Chris turned away with a gesture of frustration.

Bea took up the questioning. ‘Could you tell us when you last saw Tomi and what she was wearing at the time?'

‘Really, I'm not responsible for the girl. Now if that's all, perhaps you'd leave as we have plans for the rest of the day which don't include you. Either of you.'

Hermia picked up her jacket and retrieved a small diary from a pocket. ‘Two weeks last Saturday I was at a party with some friends. Harry came in, moaning that Tomi had gone off with someone else. Does that help?'

Harry scowled. ‘She stood me up. After telling me she was going shopping for something to wear to the party, too.'

‘That helps,' said Chris, ignoring Harry. ‘I saw her on the Saturday morning. We went to the library together and took some books out, some of which she was carrying for me. That was the last I saw of her. So between Saturday morning and Saturday evening she went missing, and no one's seen her since.'

‘She got a better offer, I suppose,' said Harry, yawning. ‘Now if you don't mind—'

‘A better offer than you were likely to make to her?' said Chris. Then stopped, for Hermia had made a slight but definite movement, frowning, communicating . . . what?

Bea looked from one intent face to the other. She could feel the air in the room becoming supercharged with . . . sex? No, not sex. Though perhaps there was sex in it.

She tried to work it out. There was a recognition on Hermia's part that she was interested in Chris, and that he had suddenly realized it. Despite the age gap, something was definitely going on between them.

Hermia was not a blonde and had never been a cutie, but she had brains and integrity and a cool intelligence, which would make her a better partner than any number of blonde cuties. There was money in her background, too; something which Harry was said to appreciate, but which probably wouldn't weigh with Chris at all.

Bea's brain slid on and on. If Chris and Hermia got it together, would they not argue? Yes, probably. Would she tire of him if he failed to fulfil his early promise of bright young film-maker? Yes, probably. But what if what she was feeling for him now developed into a deep, true love? She'd mother him through his bad times, admire the persistence with which he'd overcome so many problems to produce his first film and appreciate his warm and loving nature. She'd discount his charm, of course, and probably fall in love with his father and . . . would there be enough left, if he failed in his career, to keep them married?

Marriage? What was she thinking of? Chris was nineteen years old, living off his father and the kudos of a one-shot video, while Hermia came from old moneyed stock. Bea could imagine what her family would say if she invited Chris home as a prospective husband. Besides, didn't she have some pea-brained aristocrat in tow? Someone with a title?

Bea shook her head to clear it. She was imagining things.

Hermia ran her hands up through her hair, fluffing it out into a softer style. She picked up her jacket. ‘Well, Harry; I can see you're hardly dressed for our planned run in the country, so I'll be on my way.'

‘What? But—'

‘See you around.' She turned to Chris. ‘Can I give you a lift somewhere?'

‘I came with Mrs Abbot.' He stood back to let her pass down the stairs ahead of him. ‘I don't have a car of my own yet.' Was he setting out his own stall?

Hermia opened the door to let them out into the mews. ‘How can I help you look for Tomi? I saw your film. I was impressed. She's a lovely girl.'

Hermia had used the present tense. Bea noted it. So did Chris. He said, ‘I'm so afraid something's happened to her. I tried the hospitals, and my father's tried the police. Nobody's reported a body that could be hers.'

‘Your father's Cecil Cambridge, the computer guru, isn't he? My father knows him. Have you got any PR shots of Tomi that we can use to jog people's memory?'

‘Back at home, yes.'

‘I'll give you a lift, shall I?'

‘But – Mrs Abbot . . . ?'

‘I'll take myself off, then,' said Bea. ‘Let me know how you get on.'

‘Yes. Thank you.'

Eye drawn to eye, like a sleep walker Chris got into Hermia's expensive car and was driven away. Kidnapping? Well, no. They both knew what they were doing. Probably.

Bea got into her own car and flicked on her mobile.

‘CJ? Can you spare a minute? No, nothing earth-shattering – well, it is in a way. You know a girl called Hermia? Or her father?'

‘Both. Yes.'

‘She's just annexed Chris. Popped him into her car and driven off. With intent.'

‘What do you mean,
intent
?'

‘Well, on his side, I should say he recognizes an intelligence equal to his own, an earth-mother figure, and is eager to have sex with an adult.'

‘What? You're not serious. She wouldn't. I've known her since she was a baby and . . . What on earth would she see in him?'

‘Integrity? She likes the way he's pursuing his quest for Tomi. Also, perhaps, she sees that furthering his work could give a purpose to her life. She won't act hastily. However attracted she may be, she'll turn him inside out, test his potential, and decide whether or not he's worth more than a quick fling.'

‘But she's supposed to be marrying—'

‘Mmhm. And Chris is only nineteen.'

‘He's twenty next week. But still. It's preposterous. Couldn't you have stopped it?'

‘How? When did you last stop Chris doing something he wanted to do?'

A sigh. ‘I've got news. Thames Valley Police have found a body. It might be Tomi and it might not. What did you say she was dressed in?'

‘I told you. Green jacket and jumper, jeans, boots. Big green handbag. Where is she?'

‘Out near the M25, in some bushes on a country road. She's been there some time.'

‘A natural death?'

‘Suspicious circumstances, I'm afraid. Someone phoned in to say they'd been walking their dog and found it, but didn't leave their name. They're asking Tomi's flatmate to identify the body. I'll be in touch.' He disconnected, and she drove home, concentrating hard to avoid an accident.

‘
Hi, Harry. How's tricks? I was thinking, if you're going to the party at Von and Simone's tonight, you might be able to pick me up, because the Mini's playing up, and my beloved's otherwise engaged this weekend.
'

‘
Not going. Don't feel like it. Bloody Hermia's given me the air.
'

‘
Oh, you poor thing. How's about I pop round and you tell me all about it. Shall I bring a bottle?
'

‘
Might as well.
'

FIVE

T
here were lots of jobs Bea knew she ought to be doing, but she didn't want to tackle any of them. Oliver had promised to ring, but so far hadn't done so. She missed him. It would be good to have him back again.

Maggie was out. The sky glowered at Bea, promising rain, sleet or snow. In March, for goodness' sake! It didn't often snow in London, but when it did, life became difficult. Post was delayed, train services disrupted, airports closed. Shops ran out of milk.

Bea rummaged in the kitchen, looking for something quick and easy to cook for supper. She came up with ducks' breasts marinaded in something spicy. They'd go all right with rice and perhaps some calabrese. She'd put in an online order for food supplies recently, and Maggie had been cooking up a storm against Oliver's return, so there was plenty in the freezer, but nothing Bea really fancied.

The office was silent; the staff had packed up and gone home. The answerphone light was blinking. Bea eyed it with dislike and left it to blink. It was probably Nicole, wanting her to do some shopping or cleaning for them while Max was away. Enough! Although she must admit to being anxious about poor little Pippin. If only they'd listen to her . . . But no, they were never going to admit that Granny knew best, were they?