False Pretences (23 page)

‘The personnel files you wanted. And here's what I found hidden in the picture of Rhoda the Riotous. It's a copy of Honoria's birth certificate, though why he should need to hide that, I don't know.'

Bea took it from him, and held it up to the light. Bridget Honour, born October l959 – which made her fifty this year. Mother, Bridget Honour Mulligan, shop assistant. Father, the Earl of . . . ah. Yes.

‘She's illegitimate,' said Oliver, who had probably also been born out of wedlock. ‘Though I can't see it matters nowadays.'

‘It matters enormously to her,' said Bea, ‘and explains why everyone tries not to titter when she claims to be Lady Honoria. She is the daughter of an earl, but as he wasn't married to her mother, she has no right to claim the title. I agree with you, Oliver, that it's what a person is inside that counts, but not everyone is as secure in themselves as you are. I imagine Honoria has let the fact that she's not legitimate fester inside her. I am almost, though not quite, sorry for her.'

He shrugged. ‘It's disappointing. I thought we'd find something incriminating.'

‘It is incriminating. She'd go a long way to prevent her illegitimacy being made common knowledge. Go on looking. If he's hidden this, he may well have hidden other things.'

‘If I can keep awake.' Oliver disappeared down the stairs, passing Chris on the way up. Chris was holding a collection of empty mugs and plates. ‘Where shall I put these?'

She waved him towards the kitchen, her mind on the personnel files Oliver had found for her. ‘CJ wants me to look up the office manager who was there before Zander. Didn't someone say she left under a cloud, towing a schoolgirl niece behind her?'

Chris located the dishwasher and loaded the dirty plates and mugs into it.

Bea was surprised into a laugh. ‘Forgive me. How nice to meet someone house-trained. I'm afraid Oliver isn't.'

Chris grinned. ‘Dad said the daily woman has enough to do without clearing up after me, so I had to learn pretty quickly. Oliver's different, though. He doesn't see why he should do any housework when he's got more important things to think about.'

Bea was both shocked and annoyed. ‘And you haven't?'

‘Ah, well. That's the question, isn't it? Do I give a toss about going to uni? No, I don't. I even suggested to Oliver one day that he turned up there instead of me.'

‘Your father would have a fit.'

‘Mm. And Oliver didn't want to do my subject, anyway.' A quick glance to check how she'd take his next words. ‘You will let him go to uni one day though, won't you?'

She felt as if all the breath had been driven out of her body. Of course she'd suggested Oliver should go. And he'd refused. She hadn't tried very hard to change his mind, though, and she felt guilty about that. ‘I have urged him to apply again. Really I have.'

‘He thinks you'd be lost at the agency without him.'

‘We'd manage. Of course we would.'

He sighed. ‘It's a weird old world. There's me not giving a hoot about going, and him dying to go but thinking he owes you too much to leave you.'

‘Nonsense!' said Bea, as firmly as she could. ‘Anyway, I thought you'd an agreement with your father about making films.'

‘Oh, that.' He was listless, now. ‘I'm not that interested. It's just something I thought of to rile him. It's not hard to think up something to film, and the girls all think I'm something special when I say I want to make films. I'm not really committed to it, if you see what I mean. Truth is, I'm not sure what I want to do in life. Just get through it, I suppose.'

She wanted to say that if he hadn't had an indulgent father and a moneyed background, he would have had to settle down to earning a living by now, but she refrained. She turned back to the personnel records. ‘Ah, here she is. Della Lawrence. Address and telephone number. I'll give her a bell, find out why she wanted to see Zander so badly the other day.'

Chris had located Winston, or Winston had located him. Arms overflowing with black fur, Chris said, ‘Do you know, I think I'm beginning to get bored?'

Bea didn't know what to say, so dialled Della's number. ‘Is that Mrs Lawrence? My name's Abbot, Bea Abbot. You won't know me, but I'm a friend of Zander's.'

‘Who?' A hoarse, low voice. A sixty-a-day smoker's voice.

‘Zander. Alexander. The man who took over from you when you left the Trust. I believe you phoned him a couple of nights ago
—
'

‘What? Who is that? What
is
going on?'

Bea backtracked. ‘I have got the right number, haven't I? You are the Mrs Della Lawrence who worked for
—
?'

‘Yes, yes, of course. But I never expected to hear from them again, and I certainly didn't ring Zander. Why should I?'

‘Mrs Lawrence, I am equally confused. Zander was rung up by someone who said they were you, asking him to visit you that evening. He agreed, but then something came up and he had to ring back to apologize and make another appointment. Only, you were out.'

‘I got a message on the answerphone, apologizing, that's right. Couldn't think why. I hadn't rung him, so why did he say I had?'

Bea rubbed her forehead. ‘Why, indeed. Mrs Lawrence, something rather strange appears to be going on here. Could you spare me a few minutes this evening if I came out to see you?'

‘Bringing Zander?'

‘No, I'm afraid . . . No, that won't be possible. I'm acting for him, though. Would you mind?'

Bea could imagine the shrug down the telephone line. ‘I suppose. I've only just got in, as it happens. Need to rustle something up for supper. Half seven do you? Do you know where I live?'

‘Thank you, yes. I have the address.'

‘Parking's difficult around here. Get in where you can.'

Bea put the phone down and reached for the A to Z.

‘Can I drive you?' asked Chris. ‘I'm totally at a loose end, and I've got a driving licence, just. At least, I will have after I take my test again next month. If I go home I'll only get in my father's hair because he'll want me to work on an essay or make myself useful around the house or something.'

‘You are quite mad,' said Bea, laughing.

THIRTEEN

A
s a driver, Chris liked to cut in, in front of others. He talked too much, gestured too much, and thought it funny when other drivers made rude gestures at him.

Bea resolved that she'd drive on the way back.

‘How many driving lessons have you had?' She clutched at the door handle as they rounded a corner a trifle wide.

‘What? Dunno. Lost count. It's practice that I need. Dad won't take me out any more, so I'm really grateful to you for letting me come out this evening. I asked Oliver if he'd come out with me, but he says his nerves aren't up to it. I asked Maggie, too, but she says she's in the same boat as me.'

His cheerfulness remained undented as he squeaked between a bus and a Volvo. Bea kept her eyes closed for a count of five, telling herself that fools led charmed lives. Which didn't help much.

When she opened her eyes again, he was peering out of the side window, when he should have been looking at oncoming traffic. ‘Is this the road?'

Bea croaked, ‘Didn't you . . .?' She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Didn't you hear the satnav say to take the next road on the left? Della said parking's difficult here, so we should get in where you can.' She couldn't stand his driving any longer. He eyed up a potential parking space like a boxer squaring up to an opponent in the ring. She told herself not to kill his self-confidence by offering to park the car for him. She closed her eyes. Sent up an arrow prayer.
Dear Lord, a spot of help here?

Finally, he hauled on the handbrake and turned off the ignition. ‘There, that didn't go too badly, did it?'

Her hands were shaking as she checked her watch. She'd estimated the journey would take forty minutes, and they'd done it in twenty-one and a half. A very long twenty-one and a half. ‘We're a little early. Let's sit in the car for a few minutes.' She wasn't sure her legs would hold her up if she got out straight away.

He beamed at her. ‘I hope you'll let me drive you often. You're so calm.'

‘Thank you,' said Bea, hoping her voice didn't wobble.

He sighed, still smiling. ‘I can see why Oliver's latched on to you. I wish you were my mother.'

Bea raised her eyebrows. ‘You've got a very satisfactory father. Oliver hasn't got anyone.'

‘I know, I know. I doubt if my mother would have been much good as a driving instructor, even if she'd lived. I was a surprise to both of them as they'd married late and hadn't expected to have children. She was totally wrapped up in her research, the ancient Sumerians, you know. She didn't have any maternal instincts, handed me over to nannies and then bundled me off to boarding school. I mean, I was terribly sorry when she died of course, but it did mean I could live at home with Dad and go to school locally. At least he cares what happens to me.' He shot her a look to see how well this had gone down.

She took it with a pinch of salt. ‘Does the grieving motherless child bit go down well with the girlfriends?'

‘Works a treat.' Another grin. ‘Truth to tell, I really haven't much to complain about, have I?'

‘No, you haven't.' She unhooked her seat belt and got out of the car, holding on to the door till she was upright and sure she could stand unaided. ‘Shall we try to find Della's now?'

He got out with one lissom movement, yawned, slammed the car door – ouch! – and peered along a street of houses which all looked exactly alike.

Bea checked her A to Z. ‘It's the next road on the right.' And it was, though indistinguishable from the first one except to those who lived there.

These houses were all three-bedroomed semi-ds, bow-fronted, many with loft extensions. Almost all had converted the front gardens into hardstanding for cars, shut off from the pavement by elaborate ironwork gates topped with gilded finials.

‘Indian territory,' said Chris, hefting her bunch of keys and looking around with a knowledgeable air. ‘The first thing they do when they buy a house out here is to get their car off the road, so they don't have to pay when the Car Parking Zones arrive. It's a disgrace, I think, because it means that the people who usually park here can't; but I don't suppose householders would agree with me.'

Bea led the way along Della's road, checking house numbers. Della's had neither loft conversion nor ironwork gates. Her house was not exactly shabby, but it might soon become so. The front garden had been paved over recently, and there was a scooter on it, chained to a block of concrete. Was the scooter Della's? Or her husband's? Or possibly the niece's?

There was an old-fashioned display of stained glass in the upper part of the front door, echoed by that in the window bay. Original glass, circa nineteen twenty. Rather charming.

The woman who opened the door to them was probably in her early fifties. Fifty-four and flirtatious, was Bea's thought. Heavy smoking had ruined her complexion and roughened her voice, but her figure was still good though it might not continue to be so for much longer. Crow's feet, no Botox. A good bra. Hair dyed mid-brown to conceal the grey. She looked like she wore clothes from the charity shop and TK Maxx, which announced that she still had an interest in fashion and the opposite sex.

‘Mrs Lawrence? I'm Bea Abbot, and this is young Chris, who was kind enough to drive me out here.'

‘Come along in.' Della looked both ways down the road. ‘A neighbour said she's taken in a parcel for me, though I wasn't expecting anything. I wonder what it can be. An early birthday present, perhaps. She said she'd only be a jiffy, but I suppose she's been held up. You can never rely on anyone when they say they'll do something, can you?'

‘True,' said Chris, beaming as he wiped his feet thoroughly on the door mat.

Della laughed, taken in by his ready charm. ‘Oh, well. Not everyone's careless about time. Come on through.' She led the way into the sitting room, which seemed dark by contrast with the bright evening sunshine outside. A brown leatherette three piece suite, a glass-topped coffee table, four Spanish dolls, two in Japanese costume and two china pixies on the mantelpiece. Above the picture rail someone had fitted shelving, which was crowded with more holiday souvenirs, mostly dolls, some still their cellophane packaging. On the coffee table was a mess of tabloid newspapers,
Hello
and
OK
magazines.