False Alarm (25 page)

Bea rethought her offer. ‘Make it Wednesday morning. You may need to shop for suitable clothes. And Connor; let your hair grow.'

Connor said, ‘Why would you want to help us?'

‘The easy answer is: because I can.'

‘You think we're worth it?' The girl was doubtful.

‘I think,' said Bea, trying to sort her thoughts out, ‘that you'd be better off out of here.'

‘If we get ourselves jobs, it's odds on that Daddy will let us stay.'

‘If you get yourselves jobs, you can find your own accommodation and be independent.'

‘But we like it here.' Even to her own ears, the girl sounded doubtful. She looked at Connor. ‘We were fine here at first, weren't we? We had friends round and could go out and enjoy ourselves. Our first home together. It was great.'

‘Can you pinpoint what went wrong?'

‘Well . . . Lavinia, the old biddy across the hall, used to get on my nerves, shouting at us every time we came in and out—'

‘Wanting us to run errands for her. I didn't mind at first, though she did smell rather ripe—'

‘She used to catch me by my arm with her stick, nearly had me over a couple of times, so I started sneaking out the back way until the caretaker caught me and . . . between the two of them—'

‘We laughed about it at first—'

‘And then we didn't.' The girl's mouth turned down. ‘And those dreadful old women upstairs kept knocking on the door and telling us we should be happy to help someone in need, and that if we weren't working, we could at least spend time with Lavinia, and I said she wasn't our problem and then I got the full lecture about young people being totally selfish and not caring about others and I expected them to bring out some tract at any minute and tell me that I must be born again, or something.'

Connor grinned. ‘They're quite something, those two. Reminded me of my great aunt, rest her soul. But it was too much for babble-mouth here, and she didn't half let fly with the Anglo-Saxon.'

The girl tried not to smile. Didn't quite succeed. ‘Oh you!' She hit his arm, and he hunkered down on the settee beside her.

‘And then,' said Bea, ‘she died. Were you there?'

‘We were down in Devon, weren't we? A long weekend with some friends. It was a relief, really. That sounds awful, but you know what I mean? We heard when we got back. It was strange at first, seeing her door closed whenever we went out. Then her grandson – was it her grandson or her nephew? Can't remember. Anyway, he arrived and the door was open and he was taking stuff out and putting it in a rental van, so we looked inside and said “Hello”, as one does, and he bit our noses off, saying it was no use our scavenging around as Lavinia had left everything to him, and he wasn't into the business of letting us have keepsakes.'

‘Which was a laugh,' said Connor, ‘because who'd have wanted anything Lavinia had?'

The girl nudged him. ‘Carrie Kempton did, didn't she? Don't you remember how cross she was about it? She said that after all they'd done for Lavinia, the least he could do was let them have some keepsakes. I think she had her eye on a Derby tea set the old dear had in a cabinet on the wall. Anyway, the house clearance people came and took the rest and now the place is empty. Waiting for probate, I suppose. I don't know how many years she'd got left on her lease. Not many. I suppose Sir Lucas will buy the rest of the lease off the nephew, do the flat up, and put it on the market again.'

Bea's phone rang. Oliver, wondering where she was.

‘I'll be right up,' she said. She left a card for each of the two youngsters, thanked them for their time, and left them to argue about looking for a job or trying to change Daddy's mind about turning them out.

Bea took the lift to the sixth floor. The building was very quiet. Was everyone having an afternoon nap or dozing after Sunday lunch?

The decorators were not at work today, and there was no sound from Professor's flat as Bea climbed the stairs to the penthouse.

Normal life resumed when Oliver let Bea into Lady Ossett's flat. From the kitchen came the sound of a television competing with Maggie shouting something out on her mobile phone, while a kettle shrilled.

The television was also on in the sitting room, but muted. The view from the windows today was of lowering clouds and the promise of rain. No, of snow. As Bea watched, a few more flakes drifted across her vision. Followed by a few more. She shivered, though it was warm enough inside the flat.

Oliver said, ‘Lady Ossett phoned a moment ago. She's still out with the Professor, having tea somewhere in Richmond, but she said she'd like Maggie to prepare something light for supper on their return. Maggie complains, but obeys.'

Bea nodded. ‘Can you use Lady O's computer?'

‘I suppose so. What do you want?'

‘I'd like you to look up Carmela's credentials. Is she entitled to call herself a therapist, for instance?'

‘I see what you mean. I think anyone can set up as a therapist.' He set about his task with enthusiasm.

Bea homed in on the wall where the Lucian Freud portrait had once hung. A Kashmiri rug had been tacked up there instead. It looked good. Of course, it wasn't worth as much as the portrait.

She drifted over to the window, to look out over the terraced garden. It seemed increasingly unlikely to her that someone had come up the fire escape on the afternoon of the bridge party in order to poison Lady O. It had been an ‘inside' job.

Bea wasn't sure what it had been meant to achieve. Not Lady O's death, surely? No, not even Sir Lucas seemed to desire that.

To frighten Lady O? Y-yes. But why?

To kill the cat? Y-yes. But why choose that method?

Oliver lifted his head from the screen. ‘Carmela's got some letters after her name but I don't think they're those of a reputable institution. Ah. Yes. College degrees provided by two American universities, possibly bought over the Internet. Hm. No, neither of them are what you might call trustworthy. She's a fraud.'

‘Not a fraud. She doesn't pretend to be anything but what she is – and I'm sure she does provide therapy, of a kind. If Donald had gone to her for help I suspect she might have sorted him out. Can you look up Harvey for me?'

Oliver tapped keys. ‘What for? He writes books. They're on his bookshelf. He gave me one. He's the film critic for one of the tabloids. He showed me a book of his cuttings.'

‘I like to check everything. Harvey tells us he's written books and is a film critic, but is he really? He's a fantasist by profession. He keeps cuttings of reviews
someone
has written and of books
someone
has had published but is that someone really Harvey?'

‘Oh, come on, now.' A pause while he tapped away. ‘Yes, he has a website, and yes, his books are all here.'

‘Who is his publisher? Is he self-published, or is he with a reputable royalty-paying publisher?'

‘Who's got a nasty mind, then? Yes, here it is. A reputable publisher. Wait a mo and I'll access their website. Yes, specializing in his field. Both his website and the publisher give the name we know him by. He's genuine enough.'

‘Back to his website. What does it say about the film reviews?'

Tap, tap. ‘That's all OK, too. He has a blog. Hold on . . . I'll get on to that. Yes, yes. His blog covers what he's seen and what he's written about. Oh yes, and he's on Facebook and Twitter as well. You're barking up the wrong tree.'

‘No porn on his website?'

‘Give us a break. No. Definitely not. Yes, he's interested in young men, but I can't see that he's doing anything about it.'

‘Apart from pinching your bottom.'

Maggie came flapping into the room in her flip-flops. ‘Is that Harvey you're talking about? A scream, isn't he? I think he's completely and utterly sexless, but tries to make out he's gay. It's probably something to do with his mother denying him a cuddle when he was growing up, or taking away his teddy bear, or something.' She flung open a window, letting a cold wind in. ‘I'm knackered, slaving over a hot stove. I'm cooking enough for five; us three, my mother, and the Professor, if he decides to join us for supper. Want a cuppa? Carrie Kempton brought us up some home-made chocolate biscuits which look yummy.'

‘A cuppa would be good. I won't stay for supper, but thanks. Maggie, are you coming home tonight?' Bea already knew what the answer would be.

Maggie pulled a face. ‘Oh, baby; it's cold outside.' She shut the window again. ‘You know I can't leave her.'

‘She's got the Professor now,' said Oliver, still bent over the computer.

Bea said, ‘I'll find someone to move in with her tomorrow. Oliver, see what else you can find on the other people in the flats, will you?'

Maggie shook her head. ‘My mother needs someone she can trust. I can put off some of my jobs and do the others in the afternoon, perhaps, when she's busy with other things. Tea or coffee, everyone?'

Bea wandered around, looking at everything; looking at nothing. She didn't like it, but she did think Maggie was right in choosing to stay with her mother. There was still something nasty going on at the flats, and until it was identified and dealt with, Lady Ossett did need someone at her back.

Oliver looked up. ‘Our Cynthia. She is one terrifying babe! She started from scratch in the lingerie business and is now worth several million. Floated on the Stock Exchange last year. Donald was on to a good thing. A pity he messed up.'

Maggie brought in a tray of mugs of coffee and a plate of delicious looking biscuits. She handed them round, collapsed on to a settee, flicking off her flip-flops, and ran her fingers up through her spiky red-at-the-moment hair. ‘Cynthia terrifies me. And she always comes out on top at the bridge parties. What's that about Donald messing up?'

Bea told her. ‘He tried it on with Evonne and Carmela, and when they didn't want to know, he had some call-girl cards printed up with their details on. Cynthia's just thrown him out.'

‘Wow! Really?'

‘Really. Did you say she comes to your mother's bridge parties?'

‘Mm. I think Lucas asked her to. He put up some money to help her get started, you know.'

Bea stared at Maggie. ‘What else do you know about the people who live here?'

Maggie counted them off on her fingers. ‘Nothing much to say about the McIntyres. She's a wimp and he's overprotective.'

‘Start from the top. The Professor.'

‘He's OK. I suspect he's looking for someone to take care of him in his old age. Dunno if my mother is quite the right person, but as a stopgap he's useful to her. He's got a daughter who'd dearly love to shove him into an old people's home, but he's not ready for that yet.'

Oliver, tapping keys, said, ‘He's OK. The genuine article. I doubt if he's good husband material, though. Married and widowed twice. Been single for some time.'

Bea handed the biscuits around. ‘He's hungry for company, so he might be all right. What about the people opposite him, the ones who are in France at the moment?'

Maggie took a biscuit. ‘Um. Yum. Strong chocolate flavour. And something else? Orange peel? The people opposite the Professor are a retired businessman and his wife. She's got heart trouble. They like it in France because their daughter lives there with her husband and their three grandchildren. I did wonder if they were doing the flat up to sell.'

‘That makes sense. Maggie; for someone who doesn't live here now, you know a lot about the natives. I assume from Carrie and Lucy?'

‘Aren't they sweet? They take an interest in everyone and everything, not like some old people who grumble about everything and never move from their armchairs. The next down is Tariq; well, he's gone and I gather he's left something of a mess behind him. He was warned about the music, you know. But you can't tell some people anything. Then there's Harvey . . .' Maggie's face cracked into a grin. ‘Oh, poor Harvey. Getting locked in, and then getting stuck half way in and half way out of his window. Wish I'd seen it. But he's all right, really.'

Bea took a second biscuit. ‘Is Carmela “all right, really”?'

A quick frown. ‘I don't know. I've never understood exactly what she does for a living. Carrie says Carmela lets men talk to her and that that's all they do, but Lucy says that if I believe that, I need my head examining. I really don't know.'

Bea nodded. ‘Agreed. So if we skip Cynthia and the McIntyres, that leaves us with the dark-haired Daddy's girl, Evonne, and her partner, Connor.'

‘I hardly know them,' said Maggie. ‘They have their own friends, not exactly my style. Carrie says they've been rather naughty and that they've let the side down. I used to think Connor was quite dishy, but he's shaved off all his hair and I don't think it suits him.'

‘Which leaves Lavinia.'

‘The old lady on the ground floor. She was here for ever, since before my mother came, and that must be seven or eight years ago now. Not that Mother was in the penthouse then. She only moved up here when she married Lucas.'

‘Where was she before?'

‘Where the Muslim family is now. Have you seen them yet? Poor things; the women jump if a car backfires, and the men look at me as if I were toast.'

‘Nice toast, or something to gobble up?'

‘Like, “I would if I could, but someone's watching.”'

‘Not nice. Do they speak English?'

‘Well enough. The women let me into their flat once when they needed to know how to work the oven and they didn't trust the caretaker, which you can understand in a way. They wear those black cloak things whenever they go out, and when they have visitors apart from the family.'

Oliver took another biscuit, spraying crumbs as he accessed another website. Laughing. ‘Harvey's blog! I must say, he writes amusingly. I can see why he's got a following.'