False Alarm (30 page)

Bea was not, definitely not going to be drawn into Sir Lucas's orbit. The manageress was considerate enough to ask how Bea was feeling, and to recommend that she drank flat Coca Cola to replace the salts she'd been losing. Bea didn't have any in the house. ‘I'll send one of the girls out for some for you.'

A large bottle of Coca Cola duly appeared. Bea was instructed to drop a few grains of sugar into the liquid, to reduce the bubbles before she drank any. With some misgivings she followed the instructions and, slightly to her surprise, it did help.

She dozed on the settee. Tried to think. The others hadn't eaten the lobster, so . . . what did that mean?

After a while she got up to hunt for a telephone number which she hadn't used for some time.

The detective inspector was not available at the moment. What had she expected? That he rush to her side with handcuffs ready to take someone into custody? That wasn't likely to happen, was it?

The odds were against anybody doing anything.

She might as well let the matter drop, forget all about the people in the flats, and concentrate on minding her own business.

She woke with a slight headache, after a quiet night, but otherwise feeling she was on the mend. She drank some more water, managed to make her way into the shower and out again. She looked in the mirror and blenched. She looked as if she'd aged ten years. Would make-up help? No. She wasn't ready for that yet.

She knew she had to get some food inside her, but the thought of cooking made her feel faint. Perhaps some dry biscuits?

If only Maggie or Oliver could return . . . But they were looking after Maggie's mother, and it was right that they should do so, or Lady Ossett might meet with an ‘accidental' death, too.

How to prevent it? Well, she wasn't capable of preventing a fly from settling on her arm at the moment, so she must put them out of her mind until she felt better.

She didn't feel up to getting dressed. She brushed out her hair, put on some lipstick, a housecoat, and her bedroom slippers. Very gently she let herself down one flight of the stairs to the kitchen.

Tea. Not too hot. A plain biscuit, or even two? Another half of a banana. They stayed down.

Winston required to be fed. She obliged. She scanned the Business section of the morning papers, and yes, there was a report about a forthcoming AGM at Vicori House where ructions were expected, tra la. She wondered how Sir Lucas's broken arm was getting on.

She could tell that her agency staff were at work, as the phones were ringing down below. She accessed the messages on her answerphone. Nothing drastic, but one of them needed to be attended to. She took a note about it downstairs, thanked her manageress for the Coca Cola and said she hoped to be back at work the following day. She was told that at her age it would take time to recover. Thanks very much. On her way out, she remembered that young Evonne and Connor might call at some point looking for a job, so she warned the manageress to look out for them and help them if possible. But if not . . . tough!

Back upstairs she let a few tears fall. Then brushed them away.

Dear Lord, what am I supposed to do? Two deaths already. Possibly a third. A man's arm broken. He could easily have made a fourth. And no one is being called to account for it. I feel as if I'm shouting into a bank of mist.

I've asked all the right questions, I've tried to make people see what's happening, and what do I get for it? A bonk on the head and food poisoning.

Max ought to have made sure I didn't have any dish with lobster in it, when he was ordering. Uh, oh. Not his fault. I should have made sure of it myself.

I've tried to talk to CJ. He doesn't want to know.

Piers can't help. Not his scene.

Max . . .? Don't be daft. If I can prevent him from pinning his colours to the Holland and Butcher mast, that's as much as I can manage.

She noticed that a heavy rain was falling outside. That would wash the remains of the snow away . . . together with the footprints on the fire escape.

Even the elements were conspiring against her.

She hauled herself upstairs, pulled on casual clothes and attempted some make-up. It made her feel better. Slightly. Winston the cat came up to keep her company. She made her bed, put aside for cleaning the dress she'd worn to the restaurant.

As she stood at the front window, looking out over the street, where the cars were going swish, swish as they passed by, she heard an inner voice say,
for evil to triumph, it is only necessary for good men to do nothing.

Did that mean she had to try once more to get someone to interfere at the flats? Possibly. But she couldn't do it by herself. She'd tried that. She needed help.

She'd asked for help and nothing had happened.

Don't give up.

She went downstairs, found some paper and her notebook, and settled down to making a chart of who lived where at the flats, with appropriate comments. It took some time, but clarified her thoughts.

Her front doorbell rang, and someone let himself into the house. ‘Mother?'

Max. Of course.

She didn't feel up to arguing with him. ‘Dear Max; how thoughtful of you to call. Yes, I am feeling a little better this morning. Not quite my usual self, but getting there.'

‘I suppose it could have been worse.' He was grumpy this morning. ‘I had to explain to Benton that you were not feeling the thing.'

‘No, indeed. Dilys was sweet. A nice child.'

He wasn't interested in Dilys. ‘I said we'd have to meet up again, as soon as you're back on your feet. What about tomorrow lunchtime?'

Why couldn't he take a hint that she was not interested in the projected merger? She decided to play the invalid card for all it was worth. She let herself down on to the settee and put her feet up. Winston leaped on to her lap, turned around three times, and deflated. She closed her eyes. ‘I do hope I'm not going to be sick again.'

He blenched. ‘Can't you get Maggie to look after you?'

‘I would if she weren't guarding her mother's back. Oliver, too. I can't draw them away from the front line.'

‘What front line?'

She didn't reply, but kept her eyes closed. She could hear him shuffling around, fiddling with his watch strap, unwilling to waste a minute but also unwilling to risk being there if she was going to be sick.

He touched her forehead. Clumsy boy. But tender-hearted. ‘Hope you feel better soon.'

She didn't open her eyes, and heard him leave the house. Good. She snuggled down, one hand in Winston's fur. The cat was purring. She relaxed. Slept.

Awoke to a peal on the front doorbell. Was it afternoon, already?

Winston had departed. She stood up, feeling more like herself, and went to let her caller in. Detective Inspector Durrell. Intelligent, laid back, of mixed ancestry, with a growing family and a wicked sense of humour.

Maybe God had answered her prayers, after all. ‘Am I glad to see you!' She almost kissed him.

‘They pulled me off another case to deal with you.' He looked yearningly towards the kitchen. ‘You haven't any food or drink on the go, have you? I seem to have missed lunch. And breakfast.' He thought about it. ‘I did have something to eat last night. I think.'

She led the way to the kitchen. ‘I'm recovering from a bout of food poisoning which you won't want to know about but which . . . How many people have to get sick before health and safety close down a restaurant?'

‘What?'

She sighed. ‘No, I don't suppose one person being sick is enough. I asked if the fish dish had lobster in it and was told that it didn't. But it did. The restaurant apologized of course, but personally I don't think it was very helpful of them to say there wasn't any lobster in the dish when there was. So I've been knocked out for the last couple of days. Well, put that one down to experience and refuse to visit that particular restaurant again, right? I could do with something to eat now. What would you like?'

‘Anything.' He stretched. Seated himself on a stool. Winston the cat immediately jumped up on to him and sat there, purring, confident that by this means he'd get to be fed.

She opened the fridge. She couldn't take fried food. There were some chicken fillets. She enquired of her stomach whether or not they would do and received an affirmative answer. ‘Something with chicken and rice do you?'

‘You're a wonder, Mrs Abbot. And a pain in the derrière, of course.'

She tried to laugh. ‘You've been told to silence me; is that right?'

‘Not at all. I've been told you know where to find the villain in the case.'

She gaped. ‘What! Who . . .?'

‘Tariq. There's a warrant out for his arrest, and the word is that you will know where to find him.' He twisted round to look up at the cupboards behind him. ‘Are there any biscuits in the tin? Or some of your home-made cake? I have the fondest memories of working with you before. Your cooking is out of this world.'

‘I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I suppose this is Sir Lucas getting back at me because I refuse to bow down and worship at his shrine. I'm in shock. I haven't the slightest idea where Tariq may be. Anyway, what's he charged with?'

‘Everything from spitting in the street to murder.'

‘What nonsense.' She sent him a sharp look. ‘I'll feed you, but in return you'll promise to listen to my side of the story, right? I suppose you've been told that nothing must rock Sir Lucas's boat, and that I'm a silly woman whose imagination has run away with her.'

‘Serious doubts have been raised as to your sanity. I'm informed on the highest authority that as soon as you've told me where he's hiding you should take a holiday in the sun.' He found some peanuts and started to eat them.

Bea put a saucepan under the tap and dropped it. ‘Sorry. Still rather tottery, I'm afraid.'

A firm hand took the pan off her. ‘You're not fit. You sit down, and I'll cook.'

‘You can cook?'

‘I learned when my wife was tied up with three children under school age.' He set the water on to boil. ‘Now; start from the beginning. Someone attempted to kill Sir Lucas—'

‘Well, actually, I don't think they did. His fall was collateral damage.'

‘You amaze me! And not for the first time. You keep the onions in a stand by the back door, I seem to remember. Go on.'

‘I have to set the scene first. Sir Lucas is a giant spider. He sits in the middle of a beautiful web, a structure with worldwide appeal which attracts lots of shiny, juicy flies. Once within his orbit, the flies find they're so entangled that they can't get free.'

‘Ah. He gives out money and patronage, so no one wants to offend him? Carry on.'

‘He likes to think that everything in sight belongs to him. When he moved into the block of flats in which he and his wife lived, he tried – and mostly he succeeded – to put all the other tenants on short-term contracts only. Yes, this is important, so you needn't look bored.'

‘Was I? Where's the salt? Ah. Got it.'

‘This meant he could control the tenants who lived in the flats. Three or four people who'd lived there before he owned the freehold resisted his charms, and kept their long-term contracts, but they were all senior citizens and he could afford to wait for them to die off. To encourage them to think about moving, however, he raised the service rents, which put pressure on those with a restricted income. You follow me?'

‘He's a business man. Yes.'

‘He issued new contracts to some tenants and put money into other tenants' businesses. Carmela was his “therapist”; don't ask me what that means because I don't know. He put money into the dominatrix Cynthia's business. A colleague took another flat which is currently occupied by his daughter. Then there was one leased out to a couple of Sir Lucas's employees, which was eventually sublet to Tariq.'

‘Ah; now we're getting to it. He's the man I'm hunting, the man who set the trap which set Sir Lucas tumbling down the stairs.'

‘No, it wasn't him. To get back to Sir Lucas. Men who run empires are always looking over their shoulders to see who wants to stab them in the back next. Consider his situation: he's facing a hostile takeover bid, and he suspects someone in the company is trying to oust him from power. In addition he's planning to divorce his current wife and take on a younger woman who has money of her own. When he trips and falls he assumes it's all part and parcel of a plot to get rid of him. He sets his security people to ferret out the mole at Vicori House and – realizing that if the wire across the stairs had been intended for him, his enemy must have an accomplice at the flats – he looks around for someone to blame there as well. He jumps to the conclusion that the villain must be Tariq, but even he needs a smidgeon of proof, so he brings in an outsider to investigate.'

‘This is where you came in?'

‘Not so fast. One of his problems was how to keep Lady Ossett calm at that crucial point in time. The last thing he wanted was for her to go yowling to the papers about their separation or a trip wire on the stairs. But his younger mistress was beckoning. So when the incident occurred, he seized on it as an excuse to walk out of the penthouse suite, telling Lady Ossett that this was a fake separation to keep her from harm while he identified the villain of the piece.'

The inspector suspended operations, wooden spoon in the air, ‘She wasn't responsible for the tripwire, was she?'

‘No, of course not, but she was sharp enough to realize that all was not well, to look very hard at his motives, and to wonder who the trap on the stairs was really meant for. She went along with his story in public but in private she was genuinely afraid for her own personal safety. Rightly so. She got into such a state that she ordered her daughter Maggie to return home to look after her.'