False Money (8 page)

The landline rang, and she answered it.

‘Bea? I tried to ring you earlier.' A man's voice brought her back to the present. Piers, her first and long ago ex-husband. ‘You haven't forgotten about tonight, have you?'

‘Of course not,' she lied, eyeing with disfavour the ducks' breasts now defrosting on the worktop. Going out with Piers, a much-sought-after portrait painter, was always interesting. He'd been an unsatisfactory husband, tom-catting around from the day they were married, but of recent years had proved himself a good friend. ‘Where are we going?'

‘Someone gave me some tickets for the
Messiah
at the Albert Hall. Not my usual scene. What do you think? We could eat somewhere local afterwards, or before.'

The front door banged and in marched Maggie, bringing a blast of cold air with her. ‘Yoo-hoo! I'm back.'

‘Fine by me,' said Bea, distracted. ‘Whatever.' She covered the phone over to say to Maggie, ‘They've found a body, might be Tomi's.'

Piers' voice was sharp at the other end of the phone. ‘What's up?'

Maggie dropped her bag on the floor. ‘What?'

Bea turned back to the phone. ‘A girl's gone missing. Someone Maggie and Oliver know. They've found a body which might be hers.'

‘You want me to help?'

‘Doing what, Piers? The police will deal with it.'

Maggie sat down on the nearest stool with a bump. ‘Really?' Her eyes were enormous.

‘Sorry, yes.' To Maggie. And to Piers, ‘Look, Maggie's just come in, and we're both in shock. Can I ring you back?'

‘I'll come round.'

‘No, don't—'

He'd already clicked off. Bea replaced the receiver on her landline phone and put her arm around Maggie. ‘It might not be Tomi.'

Maggie shuddered. ‘If it isn't, then where is she?'

Bea held the girl close to her. Maggie burrowed her head into Bea's shoulder and huffed. Then pulled away, swiped her hand across her eyes and got up to put the kettle on. ‘I'm dying for a cuppa. How about you?'

‘I can't think. Yes, I'd . . . No, better not. Piers is coming round. He's supposed to be taking me out, but I'd forgotten and got those ducks' breasts out of the freezer for supper.'

‘It's Saturday night. I was going to a party, but . . .'

They stared, not at one another, but at the defrosting ducks' breasts.

Maggie said, ‘Where did they find her?'

‘Beside a country road.'

‘It's not Tomi, then. She's not exactly a country person.'

‘No.' Bea didn't argue. CJ had sounded very sure.

‘I'll cook these for supper,' said Maggie. ‘There'll be enough for three. Piers will like home cooking for a change.' She looked at the clock and reached for her apron. ‘I don't think I'll bother going out again tonight. It's been a stressful week, what with this and that. I'll knock up a pudding for us, shall I? Carbohydrates. Cold winter food. Keeps you going.'

‘Yes. Thank you, Maggie.'

‘If you feel too tired to go out with him, you don't have to, do you?'

Bea felt like saying ‘I'm not that decrepit,' but kept her mouth shut. They might pretend all they liked, but the image of Tomi lying at the side of a country road was weighing them both down.

Piers arrived, wearing lightweight clothing despite the chill in the air outside. He often wore black, partly because it was fashionable, but also because it suited him. While he'd never been handsome, black did set off his mop of greying black hair, slightly twisted nose and olive complexion. He didn't wear suits, of course. At least, not the usual pinstripe city-style jobs. He wore silk shirts over denim in the daytime and silk over well-cut black trousers in the evening. His jackets were always made to measure.

His son Max had all the good looks in the world – though he was running to seed a little lately – but he'd none of Piers' immense charm, alas.

‘My dear.' Piers kissed Bea on both cheeks. ‘My beloved Maggie.' Another hug and a kiss. ‘So tell Grandpa what's happened.' He made a joke of it, but he was pleased to have a grandchild and had already set up a savings account for little Pippin . . . which had caused Max to remark, sourly, that a spot of instant dosh would have been even more acceptable.

Bea forced herself to smile. ‘Nothing yet. Rumours, people panicking. It may all be a storm in a teacup. Would you like to share supper with us before we go out?'

He was not fooled, but was intelligent enough to accept that they'd decided to make light of whatever it was that was bothering them. ‘So, do we sit through the
Messiah
tonight? I must admit it's years since I heard it. I very rarely go to a concert or listen to the radio. I work in silence, as you know. Even the tinkle of a mobile phone irritates me.'

‘Who gave you the tickets? Someone who wants to widen your horizons?'

‘In every way, probably. Not that I'm tempted. She's patron of something in the music world, can't remember what. Would you like to come too, Maggie? I dare say we can find another ticket for you.'

‘No fear! I'm partying tonight,' said Maggie, making up her mind to it. ‘What, sit in a cold concert hall all night, when I could be out having fun?'

‘They tell me that fun and music are not incompatible. What sort of music do they play at your parties nowadays?'

Bea and Maggie responded to his lead as best they could. It would be hours before they had any firm news, wouldn't it?

Bea awoke to the music of the Hallelujah Chorus still ringing in her head. A talent for playing music hadn't run in her family, although her grandfather had had an enormous collection of seventy-eight records, which he'd played on an old wind-up gramophone. As a child, one of her jobs had been changing the discs every four minutes for him. He'd loved the
Messiah
, and they'd played something from it at his funeral. Bea couldn't remember hearing it much since then, but the tunes had all come back to her last night.

She'd tried to shut out all thoughts of Tomi lying dead in the country while the music washed over her. Only when Piers urged her to her feet did she remember that the audience always stood for the Hallelujah Chorus. Tears came then, unbidden, as that great melody thundered through the vast concert hall. She'd thought at the time: this is a requiem for Tomi.

Which was absurd. She'd never even met the girl and wasn't at all certain of her death. Nevertheless, she'd wept. And, waking with the music still pounding through her head, she knew she now desperately wanted to find the girl, alive or dead.

A girl's body had been found in a country lane. If it was Tomi, then what had she been doing there?

Bea threw her arms above her head and stretched, thanking God for her own robust health. Also for good friends, and for work.

She could feel in her bones that this day would be difficult, so she prayed aloud, ‘I trust You to see me through it.'

The morning light seemed different. She pulled back the curtains. Ah, so it had snowed in the night. It wouldn't last long, of course. She lingered to marvel at the patterns which the snow had made on the sycamore tree, and how it had placed a soft white cap on every bush in the garden below. There were footprints in the snow; a fox? Birds had hopped here and there, and so had a cat.

The bedroom door opened, and Maggie brought in a cup of tea. ‘Chris is here. Hung over and in a panic. Wants to borrow the car. As if! I said you weren't up yet.'

Bea glanced at the clock. It was a good half hour before the time she usually rose. She pressed her fingers to her eyes. ‘Did he spend the night on the front doorstep?'

Maggie shrugged. She was wearing what looked like a man's woolly pyjamas, and huge bunny rabbit slippers. Her eyes were shadowed, and her hair was all over the place. She hadn't slept well, either. ‘He's in a terrible state. Do you think he wants to confess to murdering her or something?'

Little fingers of dread played around the back of Bea's spine, and she shuddered. ‘Unlikely. He's overreacting, as usual.'

Maggie nodded and left. Bea drank her tea, showered, and dressed. It was Sunday morning and she'd intended to go to church. She didn't often go – perhaps once every six weeks – but this was one day she'd intended to do so.

Surveying her still trim figure in the pier glass, she wondered if this particular shade of greyish-green – almost eucalyptus – really suited her. A cream jumper with a cowl neck was fine over her new dull green trousers, but the gold-embroidered waistcoat was perhaps too much of a good thing? Too upbeat for what the day might hold? She changed it for a brown suede jerkin.

Chris would play the Tragedy King, of course. He might even convince himself that he was responsible for Tomi's death. Blame himself for everything.

Why was it that some people seemed to have been born without common sense? But perhaps if Chris had been more evenly endowed with talent, he wouldn't have the imagination to make films?

He was crouched on a stool in the kitchen, fingers in his mouth. Hadn't shaved, of course. He started up when he saw Bea.

‘Mrs Abbot, I need to borrow your car. It's really important. I don't know who else to ask.'

Bea exchanged glances with Maggie, who was dressed in a heavy duty jumper and cords. No make-up. Maggie looked worried. Bea supposed she did, too. She tried not to let Chris's anxiety infect her. ‘What do you want to borrow it for?'

‘I can't tell you, but it's really important. Please?' He made an immense effort to calm himself and to speak quietly. ‘I don't know who else to ask. Dad said he'd k–kill me if I . . .' He swallowed hard. ‘If I took his car without permission.'

Bea took orange juice out of the fridge and poured three glasses full. He shook his head, tried to smile and failed. ‘Do you have any aspirin? I've a terrible headache.'

His eyelids were at half mast, and his skin looked pasty. Were those the clothes he'd worn yesterday? No, the shirt was different. Bea got out a packet of aspirin and poured a glass of water for him.

Maggie said, in a small voice, ‘Breakfast, anyone?'

‘Yes, please,' said Bea, needing sustenance.

He shuddered. ‘No, thanks. Look, Mrs Abbot, I know I'm being unreasonable, and of course you can always say no, and I'd understand, because you don't know what . . .' He gagged, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. ‘Sorry. Not totally “with it” this morning. The thing is, a friend needs me to collect him . . . her . . . from somewhere in the country, and there's no public transport that . . . Or perhaps you could lend me enough to take a minicab out there? No, that won't do, because if she's not there or . . . I can't think straight.'

He began to pace the kitchen. Maggie held up a carton of eggs and a pack of bacon for Bea to see. Bea nodded, getting out the muesli and cornflakes. Perhaps, if she stocked up internally, she'd feel strong enough to work out what was upsetting Chris.

Oh! Something cold slithered up and down her spine. The country? Someone wanted collecting? Him or her?

But Tomi was dead, wasn't she? Bea looked at Maggie, who looked back at her, registering alarm and surprise. Bea noticed that her own hands were trembling as she opened the pack of muesli and poured some out for herself and Maggie.

‘You mean Tomi phoned you and asked her to collect her?'

‘Yes. No. I mean. I can't think straight.' He clutched his head with both hands. ‘She texted me: COME AND GET ME. FULMER LANE. TOMI.'

Fulmer Lane. CJ hadn't mentioned Fulmer Lane when he'd reported that the police had found a body, had he? Calm down, Bea. Think this through, step by step. She poured milk on to her muesli.

Winston, their furry black cat, appeared. Chris picked him up to stroke him, and then put him down again. ‘My head's killing me.'

Bea tried not to let her voice wobble. ‘A text message is not necessarily genuine.'

‘I know that. I'm not stupid. At least, I know I'm not thinking clearly at the moment – this headache – but I can't just ignore it, can I? Yesterday I was sure she was dead, but now . . . You must see that I've got to find out what's going on.'

Maggie looked very pale, but was making a good job of spooning muesli into her mouth while setting some bacon on to fry.

Bea put the kettle on to boil and spooned coffee grounds into the cafetière.

‘Fulmer Lane. Where is that?'

‘It's just off the A40, a turn off near the M25, leads down to a pretty village called Fulmer. We go out there to a pub for drinks in the summer, sometimes. But Tomi hasn't any transport, and neither have I. Why should she be out there, anyway? That is, assuming she's alive.' He clutched his head again. ‘Am I going mad?'

‘No. You're confused because you haven't enough information. What does your father say?'

‘I don't know. I crashed out on a friend's couch last night and only read the text when I got up this morning. I tried to phone him, but he never answers the landline and he turns his mobile off at night. I was walking home when I remembered you lived closer and might lend me your car.'

Bea tried to think clearly. ‘Your father told us late last night that a body had been found in a country lane near the M25. No identification as yet.'

Chris groped for a stool and sat on it, breathing heavily, eyes closed. ‘It's Tomi, isn't it? She texted me, I didn't pick up, and now she's dead. If I'd gone out there last night, maybe she'd still be alive. What happened to her? A heart attack? No, no. She was so strong. I can't believe it!'