False Alarm (20 page)

‘Was there any packaging in the yard?'

‘Yes. He was lying on some. Everyone believes he fell from Tariq's balcony.'

He laid his hand on her knee and pressed it. ‘Good girl. That's today's problem solved.'

She removed his hand. ‘It explains where the caretaker might have been, but it doesn't explain why he fell.'

CJ made a gesture as if drinking from a glass. ‘He'd drink taken?'

Bea shook her head. ‘According to Oliver and Harvey, he was sober enough when he locked the latter into his flat and took the keys away. I'm told that on a Saturday afternoon he took time off work to watch the football on his television. It was his custom to turn the volume up so high that everyone in the flats could hear it, but no one heard it today. So it's reasonable to assume that he died before the game started. I suppose he thought he had time enough to clear the rubbish from outside Tariq's flat before he turned the telly on. And fell. I repeat; why did he fall?'

A shrug. ‘He probably had a bottle of whisky in his pocket. Perhaps he found some drink in Tariq's flat on his way through and helped himself? Perhaps he was startled by a bird or an aeroplane flying low, turned to look up at it, and lost his balance.'

‘They have to have a post-mortem in cases of accidental death, don't they? That should show if he'd alcohol in his body.'

The waiter served the entrée. It looked pretty. Mushrooms and something. The wine waiter proffered an appropriate bottle. Bea asked for water. She looked around. Low lighting, polished tables, spindly seating. The tables were set too close together for comfort. Were they expecting a full house?

CJ said, ‘I assume you managed to release friend Harvey from his prison?'

‘Mm. I suggested that the caretaker must have a duplicate set of keys hanging up in his office in the basement. Lucy Emerson helped me look. We found them, properly labelled, and took them upstairs to let Harvey out. He's enjoying the notoriety; Harvey, I mean. He's as gay as all get out and takes pictures of young men for fun . . . or so he tells me. I sincerely hope that's all he does take them for. He writes teenage pulp fiction and reviews films for one of the tabloids. Hence his fantasies about being the new James Bond. He also eats and drinks horror films. He's going to let me have a list of his favourites. Mostly about vampires, I gather.'

She tasted the starter. Pleasant enough.

CJ attacked his mushrooms with enthusiasm. ‘So he's none the worse for wear and all's well that ends well.'

‘Except for Helen. I thought she'd pass out on us after she spotted the caretaker on the ground. She was white as a sheet. Eliot and Carrie Kempton got her down to their flat and, after she'd had a little lie-down, I helped her with her make-up and saw her off to their important function on her husband's arm. And that's another thing.' She sighed. ‘I thought Eliot was a bullying bastard, but he turns out to be an over-anxious and caring husband, desperately worried about his wife's health. I couldn't have been more wrong about him.'

CJ was amused. ‘So you jumped to the wrong conclusion again?'

Bea gritted her teeth, but had to agree that she had done just that. ‘I suppose.'

‘Never mind.' He patted her hand.

She'd calmed down enough by now not to slap his hand away, but she did remove it from his grasp. ‘I'm sorry, CJ. I'm no sort of company for you tonight. Too much going on. Maggie in distress. She's staying over at her mother's again tonight.'

‘They don't call you Mother Hen for nothing.'

She tried to smile. ‘Oliver is another problem. You'll say that I'm worrying unnecessarily but I don't like the way he's been drawn into acting – not exactly outside the law – but . . . No, let's call a spade a spade. He did act unlawfully by helping the caretaker to lock Harvey into his flat.'

‘With the best of intentions, surely.'

‘Doing evil that good may come of it? That's fudging the boundaries, and it makes me uncomfortable.'

‘Ah, but that's just you, Bea. You're frighteningly sure that you know what's right and what's wrong. You see the world in terms of black and white, but really it's all shades of grey.'

She blinked. ‘I know the difference between right and wrong, and so do you.'

A tinge of red came into his cheeks.

At that moment Bea realized how deeply offended she'd been by Sir Lucas's manoeuvres. Too black and white, was she? Well, perhaps she was and a little flexibility might be in order. But there was something deep down within her that jumped up and down and screamed when she met up with a careless assumption that it was all right to transgress because, hey, didn't everybody do it?

Some of her other problems flitted through her mind. She could see now that they could all be resolved by taking the primrose path. Going along with what other people wanted might make for a quiet life . . . but wouldn't she be left feeling she'd acted against her better instincts?

For instance; Max wanted a nominal directorship which meant paying him director's fees, which would have to come out of the agency's profits and hardly reduce her workload. It would mean a cut in the amount set aside for her pension, and the maintenance of the building, etcetera. Taking Max on board might be pleasant for both of them in some ways, but if it meant unbalancing the books, surely it was wrong to do so?

On the other hand, if it advanced his career, ought she not to do it?

Risk-taking. People said you stopped being fully alive if you never took a risk, but Bea was not of their way of thinking. Risk-taking meant hazarding everything she owned. Risk-taking meant putting the livelihood of everyone at the agency in jeopardy. And for what? So that Max – who already earned a decent living in the Commons – might gain a little kudos here and a director's fee there?

Which led her on to thinking about Holland and Butcher. She didn't particularly want to think about them, but she could see that it was no good putting the matter off.

Here was a different problem. The head of the company had employed a rotten apple as his managing director once. What was to prevent him doing so again? She did not feel happy about working with a firm whose CEO lacked judgement.

On the other hand, as Max had said, a merger between the two companies would be to the advantage of both. And yes, she supposed she might even raise the money to buy them out, if she put her house up as collateral for the loan. She winced; that house was her shell, her protection against the world.

She shook her head. She was not that ambitious for fame and fortune. Surely she was better off as she was . . . Except that if she did push the agency into the big time and it worked, then she could easily afford to pay Max a director's fee.

What was best to be done?

She really didn't know. And it was time to pay attention to her host, instead of drifting off into daydreams.

CJ was giving his approval of the Sauvignon Blanc which the wine waiter was offering to him. Their entrée arrived, looking – and tasting – delicious. CJ was becoming nicely relaxed. ‘Well, as you say; that's all water under the bridge, and no great harm done.'

She couldn't let that pass. ‘And no good done, either. Oliver wasn't able to get through to Sir Lucas until after the caretaker's body had been removed because our favourite tycoon was in meetings and not to be disturbed. When he did manage to speak to His Lordship, he was informed that the traitor in the Vicori camp had been exposed, had sworn he'd acted alone, and had been dealt with. So there was no need for Oliver to go on looking for an accomplice at the flats. Thank you for your efforts, dear boy, and goodbye.'

‘Poor Oliver.' A gentle smile. ‘But Sir Lucas will no doubt remember him when he needs another clever lad. It was a happy accident that threw Oliver into Sir Lucas's way.'

Bea wasn't so sure. Oliver was beginning to realize that he'd been led up the garden path, encouraged to wade through a pile of manure and been dumped when no longer of use. Oliver was feeling guilty, wounded, and angry; and didn't know who to blame for it. Perhaps he'd flee the commercial world, return to university and bury himself in academia. Bea didn't know what to say to him, and so had said nothing – which had probably been a mistake. He'd refused to go back home with her after the debacle at the flats.

Please, Lord. Look after Oliver for me.

She couldn't agree with CJ that there'd been no harm done. It seemed to her that a great deal of harm had been done not only on that day, but on previous days. The future didn't look all that happy, either.

‘Cheers,' said CJ.

‘Cheers.' She sipped and put her glass down again.

CJ said, ‘Well, now you've cleared up that little problem, you can get back to normal. How is your son Max getting on these days?'

That touched another raw nerve. How much did CJ know of Max's latest plans? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps a lot. Once she would have been happy to ask his advice, but not today. She dismissed his query with a smile. ‘Very well, thank you.'

She cleared her plate. There hadn't been much of the venison in a fruit sauce, but it had been sufficient. ‘Delightful,' she said. ‘Unexpected. This place should do well.'

‘Dessert? Or just coffee?'

‘De-caff coffee? Excuse me.' Her phone was shuddering in her evening bag.

She recognized Piers' number. ‘Piers? What is it? Can I ring you back?'

‘Where are you? Can you come over? I've got Oliver here, beating himself up. Too much teenage angst for one of my mature years. I've told him to make it up with you, but he's convinced you won't want anything more to do with him.'

‘Ridiculous.'

‘That's what I said. He says he's been walking around for hours, has tried CJ, but there's no reply. He wants to stay the night here and go back to university tomorrow morning. He says his life is over, etcetera. Any more of this, and I'll take to drink.'

‘I'll be right over.' She snapped off the phone. ‘Sorry, CJ. Oliver's in a state and I've got to go and rescue him. Has he been trying to get through to you on your phone?'

He looked startled, got out his iPhone and checked. ‘I don't normally turn it off, but . . . Yes, it looks as if . . . I'll come with you, shall I?'

‘I think I'll have to do this on my own. He'll be in touch with you again soon, I'm sure.'

‘Nonsense.' He signed to the waiter for the bill. ‘I expect he is a little downhearted with the way things have turned out, but it's all good experience as I shall tell him. I'll get us a taxi.'

Bea seethed, but it was true that CJ had the ability to conjure up taxis even in the heart of London and it was undeniably the quickest way to get around.

‘Top floor,' said Bea, when they arrived at Piers' address. ‘He never stays long in one place. He's moving again soon, but I'm not sure where.' She wondered which of them might have to take a breather before they got to the top, but though they both slowed down on the last flight of stairs, they arrived without too much puffing and panting.

‘Welcome.' Piers opened the door with a glass of wine in one hand. He jerked his head sideways. ‘I told him you were coming over, so first he wanted to run away and now he's locked himself in the bathroom.'

‘He's making a mountain out of a molehill,' said CJ. ‘Let me talk to him.'

‘Be my guest.' Piers indicated where the bathroom lay and helped Bea take off her coat. ‘I'm getting too old for this. First Max, and then Oliver.'

‘Max?'

He shrugged. ‘Wanted me to persuade you to let him take over the agency, or something. I'm afraid I couldn't follow all his arguments.'

‘And what do you think?'

‘It doesn't matter what I think. You'll do exactly as you please.'

‘CJ tells me I'm too inflexible.'

‘If he means you see things more clearly than most, then he's right. Have a glass of something? This is quite a decent red.'

She shook her head, took a seat and, like Piers, listened to CJ trying to coax Oliver out of the bathroom.

On a scale of ten, CJ's tactics didn't merit more than a three. ‘It's not the end of the world. I'll have a word with Sir Lucas in the morning, and I'm sure he won't hold it against you that your first job for him went awry. You did your best, but circumstances were against you. I'm going to suggest that he finds you an intern position at Head Office, where you can really show what you're capable of . . .'

Bea switched off. If Oliver responded to this sort of blarney, then so be it.

She said to Piers, ‘The phone call you had this afternoon. Did you manage to tie your prospective sitter down to a date?'

‘Silly woman. She thinks Botox and face lifts will give her back her youth. She was a stunner in her day, I'll give you that; but now her face is so stiff she looks as if she's wearing a mask.'

‘So will you paint her now?'

‘I could paint her as an old crone, looking into the mirror and seeing her beautiful younger self. But I won't. Let her keep her illusions. I really must get round to painting you one day, Bea.'

‘You say that every six months or so.'

‘I mean it. But she did come up with one piece of gossip which might amuse you; a friend of hers has just sold his multimillion pound mansion in Chelsea to Sir Lucas.'

‘Ah. Makes sense.'

They both turned to see CJ, his cheeks flying red flags of disappointment and anger. ‘The stupid boy won't listen to me. Bea, you have a go.'

Bea sighed, stretched, and made her way to the bathroom door. ‘Oliver, the sooner you come out, the sooner we can start putting things right. Have you had any supper? Because if not, perhaps we can pick up a pizza on the way home.'

Silence. She waited. The door cracked open, and Oliver appeared. Blotchy-faced. His voice cracked. ‘I messed up.'