False Pretences (28 page)

This time the DI nodded, though his sidekick shook his head. Bea stormed out to the kitchen and tried to switch on the new coffee machine. Needless to say, it refused to cooperate. She picked it up and dropped it back on the work surface. It said ‘Glop!' fizzed, and died.

Bea screamed, fairly silently. A mouse squeak.

Chris came through the kitchen door, wearing Winston around his neck rather like a feather boa. ‘Ah, coffee?'

Bea eyed him with dislike. ‘I hope you don't get bitten. I haven't given Winston his flea medication for a while.'

‘He don't mind me, and I don't mind him,' said Chris, reaching past her to switch this and press that. The machine obligingly burped into life. ‘Lucky I went out to get some milk. I saw you hadn't got any. Oh, and some ginger-nut biscuits, too. I like dunking them in coffee, don't you?'

She struggled with a desire to bop him one over his head. ‘I hope you remembered to turn off the hosepipe in the garden or we'll be flooded. Oh, and thank you for the milk. I'm grateful.' She didn't sound grateful, and she knew it. She tried to soften her tone. ‘Your father's here and so are the police. Della Lawrence didn't make it.'

‘Really?' He was more excited than depressed by the news. ‘That's one up for Oliver. He said you could do with another murder as it boosted the coffers nicely. Where is he, anyway?'

‘Investigating,' said Bea. ‘And no, I don't know what and I don't know where.'

Leaving her to gather mugs, milk and sugar together, Chris drifted off into the sitting room, from which came the quiet murmur of CJ telling the police some, if not all, of what had been happening. Bea followed, kneeing open the door with some difficulty and depositing the tray on the low table before the settee. Chris was now sitting in her chair, sharing a bag of crisps with Winston.

Bea poured coffee and handed it round, while CJ murmured to a close. ‘So you see, there's absolutely no proof that we can offer you. We can prove that neither Zander nor young Oliver killed Mrs Perrot, but any ideas that we might have as to who might have been responsible are only that; ideas.'

The DI was spellbound but not stupid. ‘Tell me, Mr Cambridge, why you went to see Mrs Lawrence last night.'

Chris blew into the empty crisp packet, held the mouth closed with one hand and exploded it with the other. Everyone jumped but him. Winston treated him to a look which in a human being would have meant ‘Oh, grow up!' and jumped down to the floor, tail waving.

‘That was me,' said Chris, ‘not my father. I went with Mrs Abbot to find out why Mrs Lawrence had phoned Zander the day of Mrs Perrot's murder. But she hadn't. Phoned him, I mean. At least, that's what she said, and I believed her – didn't you, Mrs Abbot?'

He transferred his smile back to the DI. ‘By the way, did you find the keys I left at her house? I mean, that's why we went back, because I'd left them by my chair. Or in my chair. Whichever. We knew she was expecting to meet up with her niece at the pub so Mrs Abbot went off to the Feathers to see if she could find her there, but she couldn't. So she came back and looked through the window. And that's when Mrs Abbot saw the fire and called the police and fire brigade.'

The inspector was stone-faced. ‘I'm sure that if we find the keys, you'll get them back in due course.' He turned to Bea. ‘So what did Mrs Lawrence tell you?'

‘Not much,' said Bea. ‘She gave us some background about the way she'd lost her job at the Trust, saying she'd been framed by Denzil because her niece had been getting ideas about becoming his second wife.'

‘Dear me,' said CJ. ‘But that's hearsay, isn't it, Inspector?'

The DI sipped his coffee, added sugar and milk. Took his time about it. ‘What you're all saying is that you think you know who is responsible for the murders of Mrs Perrot and Mrs Lawrence, but you can't prove anything, and so therefore you won't tell me who it is?'

‘I'll tell you, Inspector,' said Bea. ‘Because I don't think it's just two murders that we're looking at. What about Sandy Corcoran? She's done him in, too, hasn't she? Oh, and if you don't look sharp, Della Lawrence's niece will probably be next on the list.'

‘Sandy – Corcoran? Who's he?' The inspector treated her to a long stare.

‘A builder. Mixed up in a scam Denzil was running at the Trust. Found dead in his office yesterday morning.'

The DI put down his coffee cup, got out his mobile and, walking over to the French windows at the back, pressed numbers and spoke into it.

Chris rubbed his hands together. ‘What a girl! Now you've done it!'

‘I hope so,' said Bea. ‘Sorry, CJ, but this woman has got to be stopped.'

Oliver let himself into the room. He grinned at Bea and waved some sheets of paper in the air. ‘Eureka!'

‘The Internet triumphs, I assume?' said Bea. ‘What have you found?'

The inspector shut off his mobile and rejoined them, with the air of one squaring up for a fight. ‘I've just been hearing about the Corcoran murder. So how does that tie up with what you've been telling me, and who –' looking at Oliver – ‘are you?'

‘Oliver is my right hand,' said Bea. ‘He's an expert on computers and what they can do, trained by CJ. He's already found Honoria's birth certificate, which proves she had no right to the title she's been claiming. What else, Oliver?'

‘And just who is this Honoria?' The inspector was beginning to lose his temper.

‘The woman who aims to take over Lord Murchison's Trust,' said CJ.

‘Your murderer,' said Bea.

Oliver was smiling. ‘Three times at least.' He addressed the inspector. ‘I've just been checking on the Internet. Bridget Honour Mulligan – known to us as Lady Honoria – has been married twice. The first time to a Sidney Watts-Long, with whom she was in partnership as a dog breeder – Staffordshire bull terriers, as you might have guessed. On February first, two thousand and one, Sidney was found dead in bed with a young girl beside him, also dead. Shot at point blank range. Apparently he'd been having an affair with the girl for some months. Naturally suspicion fell on his wife, but they couldn't break her alibi for the night, which was given her by . . . Sandy Corcoran!'

‘This begins to make sense,' said Bea.

‘The one who's just been found murdered?' asked the inspector, faint but pursuing.

‘According to
The Times
, dated February second, he swore she'd been dining out with him that evening, that he'd accompanied her back to her house to pick up some literature, and that they'd found the couple dead together. The murder was eventually put down to a burglary which had gone wrong, since Sidney's mobile phone and laptop had gone missing.'

‘What was that name again?' said the inspector.

Oliver continued. ‘I'll let you have a copy of the report. At some point Denzil must have wondered if he might be next for the high jump, because he's gone to a lot of trouble to hide clues to her background in girlie pictures on his computer.'

Oliver distributed papers all round. ‘I imagine that she paid off her debt to Corcoran after she married Denzil, by getting him to channel the Trust's building work through the man who'd given her an alibi for her first husband's death – and, incidentally, providing herself with a nice line in kickbacks. Once Zander had pulled the plug on that project, she realized that had to stop. Corcoran must have got restive, seeing his cash flow dry up. And so she silenced him.'

Everyone else was silenced, too.

At length Bea said, ‘This is a very dangerous woman. If you're right, Oliver – and I'm sure you are – then everything starts with the fact that she's illegitimate and resents it. She wants to be accepted as her father's daughter, as a member of the nobility. After that she requires the status of being married and money to keep her ancestral home going. If anyone threatens what she's got, she switches into revenge mode.

‘Zander exposed Denzil, which threatened both her income and her partner in crime. Denzil dies, and she faces financial ruin. So she lashes out at those she thinks responsible. She couldn't get at Zander himself, so framed him for Mrs Perrot's murder. Mrs Perrot was elderly and frail and expendable. Sandy Corcoran was always a threat and only kept sweet with the money from the Trust; when that ended, he had to be taken out. Della and her niece threatened her position as Denzil's wife. Even though Denzil was dead and the women were no longer a threat, Honoria felt insulted by what they'd done. So Della had to be eliminated.

‘Now what about her niece, Inspector? I think she must be next on the list. She proposed to stay at the pub where she's been doing evening work. Now that her aunt's dead, how long is she going to be safe? She doesn't even know she's in danger. And she is, isn't she? As I see it, Honoria thinks she can murder with impunity. She enjoys it!'

The inspector closed his mouth with a snap. ‘What pub?'

‘The Three Feathers. George the biker can tell you where it is exactly.'

‘We shall look into it, of course. Also, we'll need to take a look at that computer of yours.'

‘Not our computer,' said Bea. ‘What you mean is that you need Oliver's memory stick, which I am sure he will be happy to give you.' She didn't think he'd be at all happy about it, but needs must. ‘Oliver?'

‘I'll get it for you.'

She glared at him, meaning that he was not play any tricks, such as substituting his memory stick for another one. He smiled angelically and slid out of the room, meaning . . . what? That he was prepared to do as she'd asked? Hmph. Maybe. He could be a tricky Dicky at times.

She gathered the empty cups together and put them on the tray. ‘Before anyone else asks, was Denzil's death entirely due to natural causes? It was lucky for her that he died when he did, wasn't it? Granted that he had a heart condition; I'm beginning to wonder if she frightened him to death.'

The inspector got to his feet, looking a lot less smooth than when he'd arrived. ‘We'll have to make some enquiries and get back to you.'

‘Don't forget my keys,' said Chris. ‘I left them on the arm of the chair I was sitting in, so they may have dropped down to the floor, or at the side of the cushion.'

‘They're not his keys, Inspector,' said Bea. ‘They're mine. A transponder for the car, house keys, and keys to the agency in the basement. I hope you find them soon as it is extremely inconvenient to be without them.'

‘I'll bear it in mind,' said the inspector. He followed Bea as far as the door and stood there, making it clear he wasn't moving till he'd got Oliver's memory stick. Up the stairs came Oliver, still wearing his innocent face.

‘Careful with it,' he said and handed it over.

‘I'll give you a receipt for it.'

They all waited while a receipt was written out and handed over. Bea saw the policemen out and drew in a deep breath. Whatever next!

None of the men had bothered to take the coffee cups out to the kitchen. Naturally. Bea had thought Chris might, but no, he was busy teasing Winston with the crackly ball he'd made of his crisp packet. CJ stopped her as she went to pick up the tray.

‘I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes . . .' It was a command, not a suggestion. She raised her eyebrows but seated herself again.

CJ said, ‘I'm sure you realize how difficult this is for Tommy. His life's work falling apart, the Trust damaged by fraud and left at the mercy of an unprincipled woman and Denzil's appointee, Trimmingham. Tommy's mind is still clear. He has refused to take the morphine he needs to kill the pain, so that he can make one last try to right the situation.'

Now what? Playing the sympathy card won't get you anywhere, CJ.

He interlocked his fingers, leaning forward to make his point. ‘He has formed the highest opinion of your abilities, and he would like to appoint you chair of the board of directors for the Trust, starting today.'

‘What?' She almost laughed. Then realized he was in earnest. ‘Me? No, no. That's ridiculous. Impossible!'

‘Why should it be so impossible? You have an excellent business brain; you know how to deal with rogues such as Trimmingham and Sir Cecil. You could sort out the problems there in no time, and of course you would receive an excellent remuneration for your trouble.'

Bea blinked. ‘CJ, I appreciate the compliment, but I have a full-time job here. This business does not run itself. As it is, I have spent far too long away from my desk trying to salvage your beloved Trust, and I expect to find all sorts of problems when I get back to my computer. Butlers will have been sent for interview as nannies and au pairs, estate managers will be parading as chefs, and aged aunts will have been escorted to the wrong terminal at Heathrow. You have no idea . . . Well, why should you have? I'm sorry, but you are looking at the wrong person to help you out of the mess. And incidentally, why don't you do it yourself?'

He blenched. ‘No, I'm afraid that would be impossible, conflict of interests, my work for the police . . . No.'

A tiny worm of an idea inserted itself into the back of Bea's head. No, she couldn't do it, but did she know someone who might be suitable? Someone with a good brain and a manipulative mind? Someone at a loose end? No, of course not. Ridiculous idea.

‘Yes?' he said, latching on to her sudden stillness.

She shook her head. ‘No. Really. I'm flattered, but . . . no.'

He stood up. ‘Tommy will be disappointed. He's convinced you're the only person to stop Honoria in her tracks. Will you please think about his offer? Seriously? You could always appoint a manager to run the agency for you, and you would be influencing the lives of thousands of people for good – not just the occasional schoolgirl who needs escorting across London.'