False Report

Further Titles by Veronica Heley from Severn House

The Ellie Quicke Mysteries

MURDER AT THE ALTAR

MURDER BY SUICIDE

MURDER OF INNOCENCE

MURDER BY ACCIDENT

MURDER IN THE GARDEN

MURDER BY COMMITTEE

MURDER BY BICYCLE

MURDER OF IDENTITY

MURDER IN HOUSE

MURDER BY MISTAKE

MURDER MY NEIGHBOUR

The Bea Abbot Agency mystery series

FALSE CHARITY

FALSE PICTURE

FALSE STEP

FALSE PRETENCES

FALSE MONEY

FALSE REPORT

FALSE REPORT

An Abbot Agency Mystery

Veronica Heley

First world edition published 2012

in Great Britain and in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2012 by Veronica Heley.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Heley, Veronica.

False report. – (An Abbot Agency mystery)

1. Abbot, Bea (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 2. Widows–

England–London–Fiction. 3. Women private

investigators–England–London–Fiction. 4. Detective

and mystery stories.

I. Title II. Series

823.9´14-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-201-6 (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8117-5 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-408-0 (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being

described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this

publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons

is purely coincidental.

ONE

A
s a successful business woman and owner of a thriving domestic agency, Bea Abbot knew perfectly well that there was no such thing as a free lunch . . . or tea. And if she'd realized the offered treat was a bribe to get her to investigate a murder, she would have said, ‘Certainly not!'

Wednesday, late evening

‘Nance, where are you?' A man's voice, hoarse.

‘At the conference. Where did you think I was?' A woman's voice, middle-aged, educated. Bored.

‘Josie's dead! Flat on her face. In the bushes behind the church.'

‘What? No, she can't be. What do you mean, dead?'

‘Strangled, I think.'

‘But . . . who would . . .? Are you sure? I know she was upset but—'

‘That phone call from him spooked her out of her mind.'

‘You shouldn't have let her out of your sight.'

‘I couldn't lock her up, could I? If you'd been around—'

‘You knew I was going to be away this week. Surely, between you and Jonno, you could have taken better care of her. How did he get hold of her mobile number, anyway?'

‘She gave it to him while she was baiting the trap. Yes, I know she should have thrown the mobile away after we'd got him on film, but she went on using it. This evening he said he knew where she lived, which he couldn't know, but she believed him. She was wild with fright, wanted to go back home for a while. I told her punters never carry through their threats, but she wouldn't listen. She said if I didn't give her the cash for a ticket, she'd get it from someone who would. Then she ran out on to the street, right through the traffic, on the phone to the music man—'

‘The music man? But he's history! He wouldn't help her, would he?'

‘So I ran after her. She went down the alley and I could hear her begging him to meet her. Then a crowd of drunken yobs came storming through, and I lost her. I looked everywhere, into all the pubs, round to the little man's flat. There were no lights on there, though it was getting dark. I rang his doorbell, no reply. Came back through the alley, and saw something . . . You know where the path widens out at the back of the church, and there's seats and a bed of flowers under the wall? I got in among the bushes and made sure. She's dead, all right.'

A heavy silence.

‘Look, no one saw me, and I kept my head. I couldn't see her mobile, but I took that purse she hangs round her neck and her watch, so it'll look like a robbery gone wrong. I don't think she had any other ID on her, had she? No one can connect her with us.'

‘Let me think.'

‘What do you want me to do? Someone's going to spot her soon, there's always people walking their dogs through the alley.'

‘Well, if the little music man killed her, why don't we point the police in his direction? Use a public phone; say you're Joe Public, reporting a body. Tell them you overheard a young girl pleading with a man on her mobile, and later saw her body in the bushes. Give the police his name. That should do it.'

Thursday afternoon

Bea knew there was no such thing as a free lunch, but an invitation for tea at the Ritz was different, wasn't it? Even if it was at the last minute? Apart from anything else, it meant getting away from the problems at the office for a while.

The Abbot Agency had a reputation for providing reliable domestic staff, but – although she couldn't quite put her finger on it – Bea felt something was amiss. True, she'd recently taken time off for a long overdue holiday, but . . . No, she couldn't really say that the agency had done badly in her absence because business was booming. Turnover was increasing. Every month there was more money in the bank, and almost every month they were having to take on extra staff.

What could possibly be wrong with that? Well, nothing. Except that since her return Bea had had an uneasy feeling that she'd lost control of the business which had provided her with enjoyable work and an income since her husband died.

She laughed at herself, but the suspicion persisted. It was as if she were no longer in the driving seat of the car, but had been relegated to passenger status – back seat passenger status, at that.

Bea Abbot was not the sort of person who blamed other people for her mistakes. Somewhere along the line she was beginning to think that she'd made a bad decision at the agency . . . but exactly what had it been?

She argued with herself. Was she uneasy because all her hand-picked, tried and trusted staff, recruited over many years, had left for one reason or another? Well, but staff did move on, get better offers, or decide to retire.

The old-timers had been replaced by a competent team who were making the place buzz. Bea might not feel so comfortable with the newcomers, but she couldn't fault their performance.

So why this dragging suspicion that all was not as it should be? Everything at the agency was operating like clockwork, tick tock, ting! as yet another payment fell into the bank account.

She wondered if she were getting old and losing her grip. Perhaps it was the very efficiency of the new staff that made her feel redundant?

Or perhaps her important son Max – who was a member of parliament and liked to tell people what to do – was right in saying that she was not up to running the agency any longer and should retire. He'd never thought she would be capable of running the business in the first place, so over the years she'd taken some pleasure in proving him wrong . . . until now.

Had the time really come when she should sell the agency and her beautiful house in a prestigious part of London and retire to a small bungalow on the South Coast? Was she to end her life playing bridge with other senior citizens . . . even though she didn't know how to play? The prospect appalled.

She needed advice. So when she received an invitation to tea from an old friend, she jumped at the chance – and only later realized she'd made another bad decision, because there really was no such thing as a free meal, was there?

In honour of the occasion Bea took the afternoon off work, brushed her ash-blonde hair so that her fringe lay slantwise across her forehead, renewed her make-up – paying careful attention to what her dear husband had always called her ‘eagle's eyes' – and was ready on time.

She had decided that tea at the Ritz justified the wearing of a new outfit and picked out one which her clients at the domestic agency might have considered unsuitable for a business woman. Bea was well aware that a sleeveless silk sheath in crème caramel was a trifle daring for a woman in her early sixties, but she believed she was tall and slim enough to do it justice. And, for those who wondered whether an older woman's upper arms might still be her best feature, there was a matching gauzy jacket edged with satin ribbon of the same shade as the dress. She'd selected a shift dress not only because it echoed the colour of her ash-blonde hair, but also because it was loose enough round the waist to accommodate an intake of the delicious sandwiches, pastries and cakes which would be on offer at the Ritz.

She'd been acquainted with CJ for some time, as he was something of a guru to her adopted son, Oliver. CJ was a mandarin used by the police as an expert in various matters too complicated, he said, for the ordinary man or woman to understand. But no one talked of such things while having tea at the Ritz, did they?

Perhaps, then, she could be forgiven for not suspecting an ulterior motive when CJ called for her in a taxi and whisked her off to the Ritz; that prestigious, if slightly stolid hotel beside Green Park. The trees were looking lushly green after a recent shower, the clients in the world-famous hotel were dressed in their garden party best, the decor was well over the top with gilding on all the baroque twirls, there were stands of orchids everywhere, the waiters wore tail coats, and a pianist tinkled the ivories at the grand piano.

Bea relaxed. What a treat! Just fancy, there was a whole menu devoted to the different types of tea available: six different kinds of sandwiches; two of cake; and three different pastries. And would madam like a refill of tea, or perhaps another sandwich or two? Is there anything else madam fancies?

Bea did full justice to the tea, telling herself that she wouldn't need to think about getting any supper that evening. When she couldn't eat any more, she leaned back in her chair and gave a deep sigh of appreciation. What bliss!

‘That was just wonderful, CJ. I'd been letting things get on top of me at the agency, and now I feel insulated against whatever happens next. Is
insulated
the right word? Possibly not. But you get the idea.'

‘Ah. Hmm.' He steepled his long fingers and gave her a sideways glance.

She felt the first intimation of disquiet. She wanted to say, ‘Whatever it is, I don't want to know.' Instead she frowned, remembering that he'd helped her clear up one or two nasty criminal cases in which her agency had become involved over the past few years. She owed it to him at least to listen to what he had to say. She supposed. ‘More tea?'

He shook his head. She poured herself another half cup. The temperature had dropped around him, and it was nothing to do with the air conditioning, which was perfect.

He said, ‘I don't suppose you ever doubt yourself, do you, Bea?'