False Alarm (16 page)

‘No police,' he said. ‘No phone. Sorry you hurt. Accident.' He bared his horrible teeth in a grin.

‘Accident, my foot. Oliver arrived, knowing nothing of what had happened. You asked him to help the youngsters carry me into their flat and explained to Carmela what had happened, knowing she wouldn't want to offend Sir Lucas and would help you cover up what you'd done. With all of us out of the way, you switched the electricity back on, opened the lift door and . . . hey presto . . . signs of life.'

‘He sick. Vomit. I tell him, “Now you stay put till Sir Lucas come.” I take him up in lift and put him into flat. I clean lift, once. I clean it twice. Phoo!'

Bea felt very tired. ‘You do realize you've committed grievous bodily harm, among other crimes?'

He grinned. ‘He fall over my mop; accident. You come, you interfere, you trip, you fall; accident. I tread on your phone. I big man, tread on small things. All accidents.'

Bea realized that what he meant was that she was a small thing to him, and that he could tread on her with impunity. He probably could get away with it, too. Backed by Sir Lucas, he was beyond the law.

How dare Sir Lucas think he could hold Tariq captive, and search his belongings, and corrupt Oliver, and leave his wife and not be answerable to the laws of the land!

That bang on the head was getting to her. Another headache threatened. She said, ‘I feel very tired all of a sudden.'

Piers hustled her out into the fresh air. ‘Come on, Bea. I need to make a couple of phone calls.' He walked away, accessing his phone. Bea was annoyed. What! Was Piers abandoning her, too? It was all too much.

Alternative waves of fear and fury shook her. First came fear. Sir Lucas thought he could get away with murder – well, metaphorically, as he probably hadn't actually killed anyone yet, though she thought he was quite capable of doing so.

If she got in his way he could squash her like a fly, and there was nothing she could do about it. No recourse to police or the law. CJ was on his side. Carmela & Co would back up the caretaker's story. If Sir Lucas decided to ruin the Abbot Agency, he could start a rumour that she was suffering from dementia, or was in financial trouble . . . any old story. People would believe a man in his position. The agency could be torched that very night, without anyone being called to account for it. Oliver could be crippled for life in an ‘accident'. Or she could be run over on the way home.

Fury took over. She announced to the neighbourhood, ‘No one should be above the law. I won't have it.'

‘Quite right, too,' said Piers, returning to take her elbow and steer her down the road. ‘There's a little café along here. You look as if you could do with a sit down. Order me a double espresso, will you? And some kind of baguette or sandwich; preferably tuna.'

He pushed open the door of the café and shoved her inside, letting the door swing to behind him as he returned to his phone call. It was the café she'd been to the day before with Carmela. It was full, but a couple were just leaving a table in the window. Bea stalked to it, testing out various expletives in her mind. None of them expressed exactly how she felt about Sir Lucas and his thug, the caretaker.

She was angry with God, too. What did he mean by shoving her into a situation she was not equipped to deal with? She was way out of her depth.

The menu offered soups, quiches and salads, and of course their range of wonderful cakes. She needed carbohydrates. Or, possibly, alcohol? No alcohol licence. A pity. She couldn't remember when she last got drunk, but it seemed an attractive prospect at that moment. She ordered toasted sandwiches for two, fruit juice for herself, and a coffee for Piers, while glaring at a droopy woman who was trying to take the vacant chair opposite.

Hah! If she couldn't get back at Sir Lucas, she could at least prevent anyone else sharing her table.

The thought that she might be overreacting wormed its way into her mind, but she told it to go away. If she wanted to have a tantrum she would do so, so there!

The woman didn't go away, but stood there, looking miserable. There wasn't another chair vacant. Bea softened. It wasn't this woman's fault that Bea was in such a bad temper.

‘Look, my friend's outside making a phone call at the moment, but why don't you take the chair I was keeping for him? When he comes, we'll ask the waitress if she can find us another.'

‘Thank you.'

Were those tears in her eyes? Goodness gracious.

‘I thought I'd be able to manage it easily, but I'm ready to drop.' She was a washed-out blonde. Correction; her hair, though thin, had been freshly coloured, cut and curled at the hairdressers, but the face beneath the hairstyle looked tired and sallow. Almost, ill.

Bea forced a smile. ‘He can eat his food standing up if necessary.'

The waitress delivered the food Bea had ordered and said to the newcomer, ‘The usual?'

A smile. ‘Yes. Thanks.' A regular customer, then? And speaking to Bea, ‘I'm grateful.'

Piers loomed above them, grinning, putting his mobile away. ‘Room for a little one?' He smiled at the waitress, who responded to him as women always did, and magicked a chair for him from nowhere.

‘Well, Piers?' said Bea, biting into her toasted sandwich. ‘What was so important?'

‘I had a word with a friend in the business, who tells me that Sir Lucas's position is by no means impregnable. He's facing a hostile takeover bid. It could go either way, and if he loses . . .' He drew his hand across his throat in a cutting motion.

‘Excuse me,' said the droopy woman. ‘Are you referring to Sir Lucas Ossett?'

Bea stared at the woman. ‘Don't tell me; you know him, too?'

‘O
f course,' said the droopy woman. ‘We live in the same block of flats. May I ask how you know Sir Lucas?'

‘He asked me to investigate . . .' Bea paused, at a loss. What if she were to say that he'd asked her to investigate an attack on his life? Would the woman summon the paramedics from the funny farm? She said, ‘Forgive me; my name's Bea Abbot of the Abbot Agency, dealing with all matters domestic. I am acquainted with Lady Ossett because her daughter Maggie lodges with me.'

‘A dear girl. She always helps me up the stairs if the lift's out of order, as it was most of yesterday.' She produced a tired smile. ‘I had a little operation three weeks ago and I don't seem to be snapping out of it as I should. Eliot said I'd feel better if only I'd stir myself to get my hair done and a facial but I was so tired when I came out from under the drier that I couldn't face waiting around for the beautician, and I thought I'd better have something to eat before going home. I'm sorry; you don't need to hear all this.'

Piers tucked into his sandwich. ‘Going to an important “do” tonight?'

‘A dinner at the Guildhall. I'm not sure who for. Is it the Rotary Club? I'm a bit stupid about these things. I do try to keep up, but it's true that my memory is not what it was.'

She couldn't be more than forty, but didn't seem to have much self-confidence. ‘It's the anaesthetic,' said Bea. ‘Knocks you out for a good month, they say.'

‘Yes, but I must make the effort. It's important, for Eliot's sake.' Her quiche and salad arrived. It looked good, but she only pecked at it.

‘Eliot works for . . .?'

The woman grimaced. ‘He works in a private bank in the City and it's all terribly hush-hush but he did say something the other day about Sir Lucas being under pressure. It's a hostile takeover, is it? Oh dear. I used to understand all those things, but radiotherapy does rather take it out of you.'

Bea thought, breast cancer. Lumpectomy to remove the tumour, followed by daily visits to the hospital for treatment. Not funny. No wonder the woman was feeling tired and her mind was not the sharp instrument it might once have been.

‘So sorry,' said the woman, holding out her hand. ‘Helen McIntyre.'

‘Piers,' said Bea, indicating that worthy. ‘Portrait painter. He's my first husband, long divorced, but we're still good friends.'

‘Oh. Are you
that
Piers? You painted the chairman of the board at Eliot's bank, didn't you? We went to see it at the National Portrait Gallery. Eliot was furious because I said his boss looked like the cat who'd been at the cream, which was very silly of me. As if I would know anything about it.' She gave an uncertain smile, inviting them to share Eliot's opinion of her lack of intelligence.

Piers said, ‘That was very acute of you. Several people I know have called him a fat cat. Eliot probably has to toe the line by pretending his boss is a saint.'

A faint colour came into Helen's cheeks; she half-smiled and returned to picking at her food. Not much appetite, obviously.

Bea said, ‘Do you go to the bridge parties?'

‘Yes, though I'm not very good. Eliot says it's important and I can always help with the teas or sit out if there's enough people without me.' She put down her fork, hesitating. ‘If you know Maggie well, and . . . I don't like to gossip but Lucy said something about Sir Lucas leaving his wife?'

Lucy Emerson, one of the biddies, spreading the good news. With relish.

‘I've heard that, too,' said Bea. ‘Maggie's spending as much time with her mother as she can. I also heard that Sir Lucas might have someone else in mind?'

‘Isabella? Something double-barrelled and Spanish. I did wonder, when I saw them at a charity “do” last week, but Eliot said I was imagining things. Stupidly, I nearly passed out and had to take a taxi home by myself, so don't quote me.'

‘Isabella?' Piers finished his coffee and beckoned the waitress for another. ‘Do you mean the Spanish heiress, grandfather in olive oil, father in shipping? Quite a catch but slippery. She's been engaged or married four or five times, mostly to footballers, if I remember correctly. Do you think Lucas can hold on to her?'

Almost a grin. ‘Perhaps they deserve one another.' She put her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh dear! I shouldn't have said that.'

‘Of course you should, between friends.' Bea patted the pale woman's hand. ‘Do you think Lady Ossett suspects?'

‘I rather think she does, but I can't say exactly why I think so. Lucy and Carrie are so good to me. One of them comes down almost every day to make me a cuppa and make sure there's food in the fridge – anyway, Carrie says that Lady Ossett doesn't want to see what's happening. Perhaps she knows but doesn't want to know, if you see what I mean. I'm explaining myself badly, I'm afraid. Lucy thinks Lady Ossett may be too old to capture another husband, and that she'll become miserable and depressed. But that's just gossip. You mustn't take it seriously.'

‘Lady Ossett is getting on nicely with the Professor at the moment.'

‘I thought they disliked one another. He's terribly clever, you know, and really kind. He asks for me to be his partner if I haven't been paired off with anyone else. He says I always know what he's going to bid, and honestly I don't. Or not very often. Sometimes. But the stakes have been getting higher just lately, which makes him swear under his breath, though of course I can hear him. I told Eliot I wanted to drop out for that reason, but he thinks I should continue for a while at least.'

‘What do you think about Tariq? Are you bothered by the noise he makes at weekends?'

‘Oh, no. Well, only if he leaves his front door open and then the music does tend to echo down the stairs. Eliot doesn't like it when he's working. But I suppose Tariq'll be leaving soon. He got the sack, you know.'

So Helen didn't know Tariq had already departed? Fair enough. ‘What about the young people on the ground floor. Do they have parties at weekends?'

‘Occasionally, yes, but they're on the other side of the hallway so they don't disturb us so much.'

Piers sipped his fresh cup of coffee. ‘What does Eliot say about them?'

Bea gave Piers a sharp look, but Helen didn't hear the sarcasm.

‘We don't really know them at all. Lucy says they're a bit of a nuisance and that they probably take drugs; but I really shouldn't say that, because I've not seen anything myself.'

‘What about the people in number six?'

Helen smiled. ‘Oh, Harvey. A real softie.'

‘Lucy – or was it Carrie? – started to say something about him but her friend cut her off. Is there something wrong there?'

Helen was amused. ‘No, no. It's just that he's got a bit of an imagination. To hear him talk . . . He's something of a standing joke. Sometimes he doesn't seem to know the difference between fact and fiction. I suppose all writers are like that.'

Bea looked a query.

Helen almost laughed. ‘He writes pulp fiction, and lives out his plots. Thinks he's another James Bond. There's no harm in him. Now, if you don't mind, I think I'd best be on my way. I need my beauty sleep in the afternoons.'

When Helen had left, Bea said, ‘What do you think?'

Piers shrugged. ‘Eliot sounds like the usual sort of bastard who marries a nice girl and drains all the blood out of her.'

‘She doesn't trust her instincts but she's pretty acute, all the same. That remark about Lady Ossett knowing exactly what was going on, but deciding not to know—'

‘I'll bet she's right about Isabella and Sir Lucas. I wonder who might be able to fill me in on that?' He got out his mobile and brooded over the address list.

Bea signalled to the waitress for a cup of coffee for herself. Her headache had gone now she'd eaten, and she was feeling much better. So much better, in fact, that she gave in to gluttony and ordered one of their extra special marzipan, cream and chocolate cakes. Wow! Treat!

She tried to think clearly. If Helen were right and Lady Ossett had suspected her husband was about to leave her, then might she have set that trap on the stairs? Well, possibly.