False Picture (32 page)

‘I haven't got them,' said Bea, through stiff lips. ‘I gave them to Mr Goldstone, the fine arts dealer, and he has already passed them on to the insurance people.'

‘You're lying! Bitch!' His fury increased.

She jerked as his knife bit further into her breast. She tried to free her arms but he was holding her so closely that they might have been one person. Tears shot from her eyes. He didn't believe her! ‘It's the truth!'

Velma was breathing hard. ‘I have never in my life …! How dare you! Let go my friend or I'll …!'

‘You'll what?' He laughed.

She lunged forward, long-nailed fingers reaching for his face, her mouth squared, screeching.

He let Bea go to defend himself.

Bea hooked her leg around one of his, catching him off balance.

His knife flew wide.

Nothing could stop Velma. Shrieking, she brushed aside his arm as if it was a matchstick. Still shrieking, she drew her fingernails down his cheeks.

Bea caught at one of his flailing arms, but could not hold him.

Velma got him by his hair and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat.

He screamed, a thin, grating sound.

Blood trickled down his cheeks.

He stumbled towards the bed, but Velma did not let go. She swung him away from her. Yelling, his legs wobbling, disorientated, he teetered sideways and stumbled headlong out through the open window.

Bea heard the soft thump as he hit the garden below.

She closed her eyes, sobbing, hands holding her side where blood seeped through her fingers.

She remembered that the front door might still be on the latch, the alarm not set. She gasped out, ‘Front door. I'll get it.'

She tottered to the landing, looked at the flight of stairs and wondered if she could make it safely down to the hall. Forced herself to do so. Wondered if she were leaving a trail of blood. Couldn't be bothered to look.

Leaned against the front door, put the chain on, shot the dead bolt.

Wondered if the man were dead. Hoped he was.

There was no sound from upstairs. She must phone the police. If they'd killed the man … oh, dear.

Her side hurt. Her top was sodden with blood. She picked up one of the pillowcases that she'd brought downstairs earlier and wadded it, holding it against her breast.

‘Velma, I'm going to ring the police.'

No reply. Bea picked up the phone and hesitated. Why hadn't Velma replied? Had the knifeman managed to wound her as well … perhaps even stabbed her fatally? No, surely the knife had flown wide?

Bea put the receiver down and, panting, climbed the stairs, trying not to think of what she might find.

Velma was half lying, half sitting on an upholstered chair near the open window. Her eyes were open, but unseeing. Bea touched her hand. No response. Velma was warm, she was breathing. Lightly, but she was breathing. Bea couldn't see any blood.

The open window nearby bothered her. Suppose the man hadn't been killed, but was even now climbing up to the first floor again?

She forced herself to look out, fearful of what she might see. A lifeless body, or a man climbing up towards her?

The lights from the bedroom threw oblongs of brightness across the garden below. She squinched her eyes up, trying to see what lay below. Nothing. No body. No climber. He'd gone.

How? He must have broken bones in his fall, surely? There was a herbaceous border immediately below her and she could now see that for half its width the plants had been crushed and broken. He'd broken the plants, but not himself in his fall.

He was nowhere to be seen. And Velma was unconscious.

Bea pulled down both sash windows and locked them. She drew the curtains against the dark night outside. She reached for the bedside phone and summoned an ambulance.

Midnight Tuesday, to early Wednesday morning

‘Looks as if she's had a slight stroke,' said the paramedics, brightly. ‘We'll take her in straightaway. And what have you been doing to yourself, then?'

‘I'm all right,' said Bea, fighting off waves of dizziness.

‘What's been happening here, then?' asked the paramedic. ‘Was it a domestic?'

‘Burglar,' said Bea. ‘Had a knife. Gone, now.'

‘Did you call the police?'

‘Can't remember. Tried to, I think.'

‘We have to report it, you know.'

‘Fine,' said Bea. She insisted on finding her handbag and Velma's, setting the alarm, locking up the house, and walking to the ambulance behind Velma on her gurney. She sat in the ambulance, holding the pillowcase to her breast while watching Velma for the slightest sign of recovery. Her mind zigzagged between the memory of the knife biting into her, and the terrible rigidity, the waxen look on Velma's face … or was that the light in the ambulance? What time was it? She tried to turn her wrist to read her watch and released more blood from her wound.

She must ring Maggie. But not yet. All in good time.

Velma stirred, nestling into the blanket around her. Opened her eyes. The relief!

As they arrived at the hospital, Velma tried to sit up. The paramedic told her to lie still, they were nearly there.

‘What happened?' said Velma.

Bea let herself relax, and saw the world go black around the edges. As she fainted, she heard the paramedic yell for help.

Accident and Emergency Department. A fire bell was ringing somewhere inside the hospital, notching people's nerves up even further than they were already. A multiple car crash had brought nine people in, bloodied, groaning, unconscious, dying. Nurses and doctors moved around, no panic, but get a move on, will you …

Bea was stitched up, told that her friend was doing fine and she could see her in a minute, but they were both being kept in overnight, just in case.

‘I must ring home. They'll be so worried.'

‘I'll do that,' said the nurse. ‘The number to contact is in your handbag, is it? Right? Now the best thing you can do is stop worrying. You've lost some blood but the scar won't show where it is just under the breast. I don't suppose you'll be wanting to wear a bra for a few days, but your friend's coming on nicely.'

‘Did she have a stroke?'

The nurse didn't reply and despite the noise and the bustle around her, Bea drifted off to sleep. She half woke when they moved her bed, but went off again.

Early the following morning she sat up, wincing at the pull of the stitches under her breast. She was in a small ward. Across the room from her was Velma, out of bed and struggling into the clothes she'd worn the previous day. They smiled at one another.

‘Bathroom's thataway,' said Velma, pointing to the right. Her speech wasn't slurred, her face looked normal, and she was using both hands.

‘You're a fraud,' said Bea, heaving herself off the bed with an effort. ‘You had me so worried, I passed out.'

‘Ditto, ditto,' said Velma, grinning. ‘The nurse said they'll want to keep us in for tests. How's about we stage a mass walkout?'

‘
Chicken Run
. Definitely.' Bea pulled her bloodied clothing out of the bedside locker. ‘Only, do I dare let my public see me dressed like this?'

‘And me!' Velma ran her fingers through her hair, which had been so expertly cut that it fell back into shape straight away. ‘You might have thought to bring my make-up bag when you called for an ambulance.'

A nurse bustled in. She was alarmingly large and spoke to them both as if they were children. ‘What's all this, eh? Back to bed, both of you. The doctors will be round after breakfast, and they'll be the ones to decide if you're going home today or not.'

Velma sank into the chair beside her bed, while Bea did exactly as she was told. After the nurse had done her obs – or observations – Bea said, ‘Velma, what do we say to the police? I told the paramedics it was a burglar. But what we saw in the flatlet …'

No reply. Velma lay back in her chair and closed her eyes.

Bea lay back, too. It would sort itself out in the end. She supposed she ought to be giving thanks to God for saving her … but in a few hours' time, Mr Van was going to discover that he'd been tricked and if she'd read him aright, he'd be straight on the phone to that nasty young man with the knife. And then … what had happened to their assailant …? God knew, of course. She had to trust he'd keep on looking after her. Trust and … there was something that went with the word ‘trust' but for the moment she couldn't remember what it was.

She drifted off into a doze.

Later that morning Maggie organized some clean clothes for Bea, delivered via a passing nurse. Although Maggie hadn't been allowed up on to the ward, she phoned Bea with various titbits of news. Charlotte had stayed out all night with her new boyfriend. The police had rung to make an appointment to see Bea, had been told she was in hospital and said they'd connect with her there. Piers had rung to ask how Velma was doing, and Oliver had gone off to see a friend about something, Maggie wasn't sure what.

Both Velma and Bea had been told they could go home if they reported to their GPs, took some medication, and didn't get into any more hassles with burglars … and oh yes, the police would be contacting them at home.

Velma looked limp, but declared she'd be fine when she could get at her full array of make-up again. Only, ‘Bea, I really don't understand what's going on, and I'm not sure that I want to know but one thing's for sure, I can't face going back to that big house by myself. Would you … could you …?'

‘I'll tell you everything, once we're out of here. I was thinking, myself, that you wouldn't want to be alone for a bit. You can have my guest room. Charlotte was in it, but she was out all night and anyway, she drives me nuts, so if she does turn up, she can either go back to her flat or bunk down on a mattress on the floor in Maggie's room. I don't owe her anything.'

‘I owe you a new outfit of clothes. Harvey Nichols for lunch?'

‘I'll hold you to that, but not today, I think.' She ordered a taxi. ‘Let's pick up some clean clothes for you and get you settled at my place.'

Velma said, ‘I must look a hag. Do you think I should have some Botox treatment?'

Bea scrutinized her friend's pretty face. Yes, there were a few lines around her eyes and mouth, but even now Velma looked young for her age. Anyway, she got by on charm and pizzaz. ‘Botox tends to give one a stiff face, doesn't it?'

As they turned into the Boltons, Velma broached a matter which had been on both their minds. ‘You noticed someone had been in the flat, didn't you?'

Bea nodded. ‘Men never think to turn equipment off at the mains, or take out the garbage.'

‘He'd used the telly, the microwave, the shower in the bathroom – and left the seat up on the toilet.'

‘Not recently, though. The telly was cold. He wasn't in the flat yesterday, I think. He knew how to get in?'

‘He had his own key to the main house, knew the password for the alarm. But I'm thinking Sandy let him in as soon as my back was turned, and that's why he kept saying he was sorry. If he were here now, I'd give him a piece of my mind, but …' She sighed. There was no more fight in her.

As Bea paid off the taxi, Velma stared up at the cream cake façade of her house. ‘What a carry on. Poor little me, and that big house. Shall I give it to charity and become a nurse?'

Bea couldn't help laughing, which made her hold on to her ribs. ‘Ouch, that hurt. Why not go on a cruise and find some ancient but exceedingly rich man who wants a pretty woman to care for him in his declining years?'

‘Never again,' said Velma and let them into the house. Alarm off. Milk, papers and letters taken in. The pile of bedlinen was still on the chair at the bottom of the stairs, where Bea had left it. ‘I owe you a pillowcase. Remind me.'

‘I owe you more than that. I wasn't exactly in my right mind yesterday, was I? And that nice lad of yours – what was his name? No, don't tell me. I can't pack any more information into my head at the moment. Shall we look into the affair of the flatlet first?'

They climbed the stairs, rather more slowly than they'd done the day before, took the keys from behind the picture, and let themselves into the flat. The stand-by lights were still on. The blinds were still in the same position over the windows. Bea took the bathroom first. ‘The soap bar is hard. No one's used it for some time, but someone has used the shower since the cleaner was last in, and left scum round the washbasin. Men never bother to clean up after they've shaved and showered.'

Velma called back from the kitchen. ‘There are two pizza boxes in the garbage, some banana skins, an empty bottle of booze, an empty carton of milk and half a loaf of bread. The bread's stale, showing mould.'

‘Which means,' said Bea, switching off stand-by lights, ‘that he was here for a couple of days some time ago. Maybe four days, maybe five. Perhaps he came here as soon as he left Charlotte's flat.'

Velma hugged herself, shivering, cracking up. ‘Sandy must have let him in when I went off to see the dentist, but warned him to keep out of sight. No wonder Sandy ran out of cash; he was subsidizing that rat! It's creepy, to think he was so close and
all the time Sandy knew!
'

Bea sank on to the double bed, and looked around. ‘What about your cleaner?'

‘She's Polish, hardly any English. She's got keys, comes in twice a week for a couple of hours at a time, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Ditto the gardener. If Philip stayed in the flat while they were around, he was safe. He could have stayed here for days and nobody would have noticed. What I don't understand is why he left.'

Bea remembered the day she'd first come to the house to collect things for Velma. There'd been a puff of air, an almost soundless closing of a door upstairs. ‘I think he must have overheard me talking to the police when they wanted to search the place. I sent them away, but after they'd gone I thought I heard a door close upstairs. I didn't think anything of it then, but if Philip was there and realized the danger, it would have been enough to send him on the run again.'