False Picture (11 page)

‘So would I,' said Bea, aiming for humour, ‘but he happens to be six feet under in Australia.' Their expressions failed to lighten, so she hastened to explain. ‘I'm not Mrs Weston. I'm a friend of hers, Mrs Abbot. Would you like to see some proof? Driving licence, library card, leisure pass, bank cards?' She reached for the handbag over her shoulder, but the man stopped her.

‘Take it gently now. Suppose you pass your bag over to my colleague here, and she'll check out your ID.'

‘What?' Bea started to laugh, but stopped herself. ‘You imagine I've got a gun in here? You've been watching too much TV.' She handed over her bag, amused but also irritated. ‘What's all this about?' As if she didn't know, or guess. This was about more than a missing picture, wasn't it? ‘Look, I'm Bea Abbot, fetching a few things for my friend Mrs Weston. And when you're satisfied that I am who I say I am, then perhaps you'll explain why you're here and help me by picking up the milk and cream that's been left on the doorstep.'

The woman looked in Bea's handbag, and nodded to the man. ‘She's who she says she is.' She handed back the bag, and bent to pick up the items from the doorstep.

‘Can't be too careful,' said the man. ‘You match the description, you see. Blonde hair, late fifties.'

‘Thank you for the compliment,' said Bea, accepting the milk and cream from the WPC and setting them down on the hall table. ‘Now, would you mind telling me what you want?'

They were over the doorstep. Oh dear.

‘You say you're collecting stuff for Mrs Weston, so presumably you know where she's hiding? Perhaps you know where Mr Weston is, too?'

‘They're not hiding, I can assure you. Charing Cross Hospital. Intensive care. No visitors except for family. If he lasts the weekend, they'll operate on Monday, but I gather it's touch and go.'

The man blinked, but the woman said, ‘I'll check, shall I?' She went out on to the doorstep to make the call, while the inspector got out his notebook. ‘How do you spell your name, Mrs …?'

‘Abbot – A, b, b, o, t. Look, would you mind telling me what this is all about?' She had a very good idea what it was all about, but it would be best to act innocent.

‘And we can find you … where?'

‘Take one of my cards.' She produced one from her purse and handed it over.

He gave her a sharp look. ‘The Abbot Agency. A private detective?'

Bea explained in a long-suffering tone of voice. ‘A domestic agency, helping families solve domestic problems. Mrs Weston asked me to check her fridge, take in the milk, put some things in an overnight bag and take them to hospital for her, as she doesn't want to leave her husband's bedside. He really is very poorly. So, what is all this about?'

He nodded, dismissing her as of no importance. A cleaning lady, sent to tidy the house. His sidekick, on the other hand, had been sizing up Bea's outfit and was not inclined to dismiss her so easily. Sidekick reported to her superior. ‘Yes, they have a Mr Weston in intensive care. I've taken a note of the ward but he's not receiving visitors.'

The DI was not giving in easily. ‘Mrs Weston's trusted you with the keys? May we come in and look around?'

‘What on earth for? Why do you want to speak to them, anyway? I'm not at all happy about this. You haven't explained anything. Look, I've got to put the milk and cream in the fridge and then find some things to take to Mrs Weston at the hospital, so if you don't mind—'

‘Where's the harm in letting us look around?'

‘Certainly not,' said Bea, putting a snap into her voice. ‘You've given me no reason why I should let you in. I've told you where Mr and Mrs Weston are to be found, and unless you've a warrant to search this house – and I can't for the life of me think why you should wish to do so – then the door's behind you.'

‘We'll be in touch,' said the inspector, snapping his notebook to, and producing a card. ‘Here's my phone number. Tell Mrs Weston to get in touch with me, right?'

‘I shall do nothing of the sort,' declared Bea, edging them back to the front door. ‘The poor thing's got enough worry as it is, with her husband at death's door.'

‘He's not faking it, then?' asked the inspector.

Bea just looked at him. She thought she was doing the outraged friend bit rather well. In fact, she did feel outraged, but not only with him. She was furious that Velma had put her in this position, and furious that she had allowed herself to be manipulated into taking on this case. She almost pushed the police out of the front door, and closed it behind them, setting her back to it, breathing hard.

So the police suspected Sandy of … what? They hadn't asked for Philip. Possibly they knew nothing about Philip. No, they wanted to talk to Sandy, and they wanted to ‘look around' his house. Did they suspect Sandy of knowing more about the death of Lucky Lucinda than he ought? And what were they looking for? The missing picture? This was getting to look very nasty indeed.

Something made her look up. No, there was no one there. She frowned. It had been a puff of air, as if from a door closing, but all the doors in sight – upstairs and downstairs – were open.

Bea unstuck herself from the front door and pocketed the policeman's card. She had no intention of leaning on Velma to phone him at the moment, but the card might come in useful later on. Now to deal with the fridge, and check the answerphone to see if there were any calls that Velma ought to know about.

How easy it was to con those who believed in love and marriage. In his view, love and marriage did not go together like a horse and carriage. In fact, the opposite. Luckily, the dreaded squawker believed otherwise. She wanted a ring on her finger. Fat chance. But Liam would play along for a percentage of the proceeds. Liam would know how to disengage himself afterwards.

Rafael didn't know why Charlotte wanted to go to Bruges, but it suited him well enough that she did. Should he encourage Zander to take the new girl over as well? If Charlotte took the boxes, and Maggie took the miniatures, it would be a load off his mind, not to mention cash in his hand.

If only he knew what had happened to Philip and his picture! It was tantalizing to think of the Millais having been in the flat for days before he heard about it. Philip's room had been cleaned, which was a bore. There might have been traces he could follow up. The only thing he could be sure about was that Philip had been back recently, because his mobile and charger had gone. So Philip was still around somewhere, and
if he'd managed to put some credit on his phone, it should be possible to contact him, get him to crawl out of the woodwork.

But for now, there was a party to go to, a woman to seduce and a false trail to lay. He was the puppet master and they all danced to his tune.

Saturday evening

B
ea wasn't able to see Velma when she arrived at the hospital, so she had to leave the overnight bag with one of the nurses. No visitors, no assurances that everything was going to be all right.

Bea shut off the alarm as she entered her own house and stood still, welcoming the silence. The house seemed to be breathing a sigh of relief that there was no loud music, no television blaring away, no clashing of pans in the kitchen. Bea hoped Maggie was enjoying her party.

Bea poured herself a glass of orange juice and went through into the living room. The game of patience that she'd abandoned the day before was still on the card table, but someone – Oliver? – had turned over a couple of cards, creating a space into which they'd put the king of clubs. She was annoyed. Then amused. What did it matter?

She drew the curtains at the front of the house, switched on a side lamp and opened the French windows at the back to savour the night air. Two moths circled her head, attracted by the light. There was a moon tonight, rising above the tree, illuminating the spire of the church.

On such a night as this …

Hamilton had died, quietly, peacefully. He'd known his time had come, and asked her not to grieve for him but to rejoice that his long acquaintance with pain was finally over and he could move on, closer to God. He'd not been a handsome man, but in death he'd achieved a dignity that had awed her. She'd held his hand while he'd slipped away from her. In death, he'd smiled.

She swiped the heel of her hand over her eyes, and descended the curling iron stairs to the peace and quiet of the garden. He'd often paced here at night, or sat under the tree with his hands, palm upwards, on his knees, praying. She couldn't pray as he did. He was capable of praying for half an hour at a time, sometimes longer.

For her part, she could send up arrow prayers and within a few seconds find herself thinking of something else. Should she have tried harder to get Velma to leave the hospital? Would she ever make sense of the jigsaw of facts and impressions that surrounded Sandy and Velma? And Philip – where had he gone, and was he in danger? Bea rather thought he might be.

She paused with her foot on the lowest rung of the stairs, letting the scent of the tobacco plants waft around her, listening in vain for the chiming of the church clock. In the old days it had chimed through the night, but no longer. Noise pollution, they said. Can't be doing with it, they said. Disturbs our sleep.

Bea had always found it a comfort, to hear it chime through the night. If you were deeply asleep you didn't hear it, and if you were awake and in pain or worrying about something it was a comfort, as if it were saying ‘I'm here, always. Remember me.'

Bea looked up at the spire.
Remember me. Remember Velma and Sandy. If it is your will that Sandy should live, then I'd be so grateful. If it's your will that he should die, then please comfort Velma. I've been there, and I know what she'11 be suffering. I watched Hamilton accept death, but he had a strong faith to sustain him and in the end I think he welcomed it. I'm not sure what Sandy believes in, if anything.

As for Philip – you know him better than I do. Whatever good there is in him, let it guide his actions, wherever he may be. And if you really want me to get mixed up in this mess, then help me to see what ought to be done.

A breeze ruffled the leaves of the tree, and caressed her face. She shivered. It was getting late. She went up the stairs, closed and locked the grille and the windows, set the alarm and decided to retire for the night.

Oliver still hadn't come in, but he knew the code for the alarm. She could trust him to set it again once he was in. She hoped.

Sunday morning

Bea stretched out in bed, coming to consciousness with the church bells ringing. Oh dear, it must be quite late. Didn't they start at 8.45 a.m.? She'd meant to be up at seven but had overslept for once. The sun had entered the room through gaps in the curtains, which she never liked to shut completely at night.

She listened for sounds that would indicate other people moving around the house, and thought she heard the trickle of water from above, as Oliver had a shower. She sat up. Oliver might be able to solve one or two clues in the puzzle that the Westons had laid on her. She showered, dressed, put on her morning make-up and made her way downstairs to find him with his head inside the fridge, looking for … what? Eggs and bacon to appear ready-cooked? Or, possibly, the milk?

He was dressed in a good white shirt and jeans, casual but not cheap.

He said, ‘If it's all right with you, Mrs Abbot, I thought I might go out with my friend today on the river, have lunch at a pub in Richmond.'

‘Splendid,' she said, and hoped he hadn't picked up on the sour note in her voice.
She
wasn't going to be having a day off work. She was going to have to work, wasn't she? Anyway, she had no one to play with nowadays. She remembered Velma's take on widowhood, and grimaced. Lonely widows were all too easy a catch, weren't they? Although, to be fair, Sandy had been a good catch right up to the point that he'd fallen sick.

Bea cooked sausages and bacon for herself and Oliver, made coffee and toast. She said, ‘Could you spare me an hour before you go off? There's one or two things only you can deal with, and time seems to be running out.'

‘Correspondence?' he said, and she couldn't make out why he was smiling.

She thought of the missing tax return, and winced. ‘No,' she said. ‘Let me tell you what's been happening …'

She brought him up to date, laying Philip's mobile phone and the charger on the table for Oliver to examine. ‘Can you retrieve his messages, and the phone numbers in the memory?'

Oliver loved a puzzle. He pressed buttons, frowning, trying this and that. ‘The battery's dead, and there's no credit showing. Leave it on charge all day and I'll let you have the information this evening.'

She had to accept that.

She showed him the photocopy of the page from the sale catalogue. ‘The reproduction isn't good, but you can see it's a young girl in a dark dress. It isn't in any of the art books I was looking at last night.'

Oliver put his finger on the small print where it gave the size of the picture. ‘It's not very big. Somehow I thought a portrait by Millais would be much larger, perhaps half life-size.'

‘I suppose he did all sorts.' She leaned over Oliver's shoulder to see where he'd been pointing to some figures on the page. ‘You're right. A tallish man could carry it around under his arm. It seems Philip was carrying it around wrapped in a bed sheet. Suppose, for the sake of argument, that he was so desperate for money that he took the picture out of the frame. Would it roll up, do you think? Or would an old oil painting crack if you did that to it?'

‘I don't suppose it would be recommended, but the frame is so deep that if he did take it out, it would be even easier to tote around.'

‘Suppose you were Philip. You've lost your job and you owe money left, right and centre. You're on pills and have been drinking. You leave the flat some time in the night, with a rucksack or a suitcase and the picture. Why?'