False Diamond--An Abbot Agency Mystery (19 page)

As Zander helped her to do up her seat belt, Bea decided the safest thing to talk about was his work. ‘How's everything at the office?'

Zander worked for a charity which had been sinking under the weight of free-lunching non-executive directors until Bea intervened. Subsequently, he'd been a major influence in improving the organization's efficiency and had been promoted.

A brief smile. ‘I still enjoy it, which must say something about the new blood on the board of directors.'

‘And about you.'

A wider smile. ‘They seem to think I'm there to stay.' He was not going to talk about Maggie? Well, good. Probably.

He said, ‘Maggie tells me you need a quiet day. Don't blame you. You need to take out some money first, then come to church with me? Sounds good.'

After a quick visit to a cash machine, Zander delivered her to the church he attended and saw her settled before going about his own duties. Even on a dark winter's morning, this particular building seemed full of light and air. Bea liked the atmosphere. Her own parish church was over-ornate for her taste and on a dark day could seem oppressive. She told herself such things shouldn't matter but acknowledged that, for her, they did. She told herself to relax. She wouldn't think about, well, anything, for a while, except worshipping God and being part of the congregation.

The sermon was a cracker, being all about gifts; the gifts the wise men took to the baby Jesus and the gifts that we ourselves have, which we can use in the service of others. Or not, as we choose. With a challenge to the congregation to think about what they have to offer, themselves.

‘Well, I don't have that sort of gift to offer,' said Bea to herself, refusing to accept that the words also applied to her. She reminded God – as if he needed reminding – that she gave money to all sorts of worthwhile causes and, as Maggie had pointed out the previous night, she'd taken in two dysfunctional youngsters and helped them grow up. It had cost her something, but she'd done it. That was enough charity giving for the moment, wasn't it?

Zander offered to treat her to lunch. Bea was afraid he might want to talk about Maggie's attitude to marriage so she declined, but did accept a lift to a famous old inn down by the river, where she seemed to remember that Dickens had written one of his books. She wasn't sure which one, and in fact rather wondered if there was a pub within twenty miles which
couldn't
claim that Dickens Was Here.

Zander saw her settled at a table overlooking the river. It was low tide. Seagulls wheeled overhead, and the tide eddied around the odd beached houseboat as it fell. A splendid watercolour scene. Zander reminded her to call a taxi and not walk around on foot when she'd finished her meal. She nodded and thanked him for his care of her. The food was good, and she enjoyed a medium-rare steak. Every time she thought of Max, she turned her mind away. Not yet. Too painful. Too difficult.

Afterwards she hailed a passing taxi which took her on over the river to the main gates at Kew. A fine, bright day. Fortunately, she'd thought to wear good clumpy boots with thick soles and a padded coat which came down well over her knees. She'd even remembered to pull on a woolly hat, to wind a scarf round her neck, and to provide herself with gloves.

There was a good number of people taking advantage of the fine weather to wander around the gardens; earnest-looking women who knew the Latin names of everything, clumps of parents with small children running around, the odd walker striding out by themselves. Bea avoided them all. She didn't often go to Kew, but she remembered seeing a very tall slender tree in the middle of a wide expanse of grass. A loner like herself. There was something about that tree which echoed what had been happening to her.

The tree wasn't hard to find. It was stood all by itself, proud and tall. Stately. She found a bench on which to sit and study it. And at last she allowed her mind to skid back to the problem of Max.

T
he arguments in her head went to and fro.

I know what you'd say about it, Lord. You'd say that it's never right to do wrong, even with the best of intentions. That may be so, in theory, but this is real life. Query: do I save Max's marriage and career at the price Benton demands of me?

Max is such an idiot! He doesn't deserve to … Well, actually, I think he deserves whatever he gets. No, I don't mean that. Or do I? Most people say they'd do anything to save their loved ones a moment's distress. They'd think I was being selfish to refuse.

But Max can't seem to resist …

Benton is not to be trusted. If I bail Max out now, Benton will soon be back asking for more. Successful blackmailers take just so much at a time, so that they can go on feeding on their prey. What would he demand of me next time? The agency? Yes, probably.

If Nicole has already decided to ditch Max, he's going to be the loser whether I meet Benton's terms or not. Which means that it would be doubly stupid to do as he asks. As I see it, whatever I decide, Max is going to lose his career and his marriage and everything that goes with it, including, I suppose, my grandson. I can't see any way out … Oh, my son, my son. I can't cope, and it's no good saying I can.

Listen to me, Lord. I'm a widow who's never really got over losing her husband. I'm in good health but I am in my mid-sixties and I have more than enough to do, keeping the agency afloat and looking after Maggie and Oliver. So why are you letting me in for this? I don't know how to help Max. I don't know how to combat psychopaths in biker gear. I know my limits.

I don't think you do know your limits. It may be painful, but stretch and grow.

That sounded like an exercise class. Ugh.

Consider the Leylandii. This particular specimen has been allowed to grow to its full height. Impressive, isn't it?

Look, Lord. My gift is for running the agency, for fitting round pegs into round holes. It is not for detecting and dealing with villains. I leave all that to Oliver, who has a flair for searching out information on the Internet.

He hasn't found Ginevra, has he?

And you think I can?

If you put your mind to it, yes.

The age-old question … Why me?

Silence.

She shivered. The temperature was dropping, and she felt chilled. She got up and took a turn round the tree. It was a splendid tree. It must be over thirty metres high, never been clipped.

Lord, it's true I've been in danger a couple of times, but it was all over quickly, before I had time to think. This business of watching and waiting for someone to come at me out of the blue, armed perhaps with a knife … Will he try again tonight, or tomorrow … or in a week's time?

She hung on her heel and looked about her. There was no one within a hundred metres. Some way off two small children were chasing one another around, the mother calling them back off the grass, the father bending over a pushchair containing a toddler.

No heavy-set bikers.

She smiled at herself. What, in Kew Gardens? Dearie me, not appropriate. If anyone had tried to approach her with evil intent, she'd have seen them coming. But, she had to admit that she was still afraid. Fear undermined her breathing.

I'm a coward. I hadn't realized it before, but I am. See how I've turned to jelly. I never thought I could be broken so easily, but I have been. And that's why I've got to opt out of this sort of thing. It's warping my judgement.

Feeling sorry for yourself, are you? I chose you in the womb. I know what you are capable of, even if you don't. The Leylandii tree grows fast. In a small garden where there are constraints on height, the tree is often cropped to a misshapen stub. In vain it tries to expand to the height it was meant to be. But where there are no constraints in the wider world, it grows to be a magnificent specimen.

I don't understand. I won't listen.

You do understand. But … the choice is yours.

The shadows were deepening in the distance. Soon it would be time for the gardens to close for the night. Incredibly, she was hungry again.

She walked to the nearest gate, crossed the road, and made her way to the Maids of Honour restaurant. Lights shone in homely fashion from the small-paned windows. There wasn't a straight line in the place, but their teatime menu was out of this world. Only, they hadn't a table to spare and there was a queue of people waiting to be seated.

She stood outside for a while, thinking about that word, honour. A dry word. A word that didn't seem to have much meaning today. Honour. On our.

Wouldn't people laugh if she quoted ‘honour' as a reason for doing something nowadays? Of course they would.

Courage was another word you didn't hear much about, either. It was expected of soldiers, of course. But not of middle-aged-to-elderly widows who thought they were going down with a cold. It was certainly chilly out tonight. She'd been sitting around on a damp bench in the park for far too long. She decided to forgo tea and take a taxi on to the Waterman's cinema.

There was a dearth of taxis, just when she needed one. There were a lot of buses, though. She decided to take one, rather than call up a minicab service and wait around twenty minutes or so for one to come.

Sitting in the bus, she thought about the many lives of the people who the Maids of Honour cafe must have seen pass before their windows. Some of the people who'd lived in the neighbourhood would have been stifled by the small-town lives they led, as the Leylandii trees were sometimes crippled into dwarfish shapes. Some of those who'd stepped over the threshold had been able to strike out into the bigger world, had grown to their full potential … and survived.

The question is, Mrs Abbot: are you prepared to risk a growth spurt, because you certainly aren't equipped to take on Benton at the moment?

She alighted at the cinema, took one look at the ‘bang, bang, you're dead' film which was on offer and decided she couldn't face it. It had started to rain, and the only taxis which passed by were occupied. A lone biker drew up in the car park nearby, idling, waiting for someone.

A lone biker wouldn't be out to get her. Still, he made her feel uneasy.

A gust of wind and rain decided her to make a move, and she hopped on the next bus going north, trying to calculate where it would take her, where she would need to change, and what number bus she would then need to get back home.

She almost fell asleep, but roused herself to get off at the right stop and wait for a different bus which would take her past the end of her road. The rain had increased, and so had the traffic. Plenty of lone bikers about tonight, all looking exactly alike in the early dusk. She smiled to think how uneasy that one lone biker down by the river had made her feel.

An unoccupied taxi came along, and she flagged it down and gave her home address.

The house was dark and quiet. She dealt with the alarm, shed her coat and made for the kitchen. Oliver came in while she was feeding Winston his bedtime snack. Maggie followed soon after. Bea didn't feel like making small talk, so she said she'd had a lovely day and was off up to bed. As she climbed the stairs, she heard them conversing in low voices. Nice of them to keep the noise down when she was feeling so tired.

Shower and dress. The swelling on her face was going down nicely, and make-up helped to disguise her bruises. She told herself to pretend she knew what she was doing in destroying Max's future.

She reasoned with herself. Max had destroyed his own future.

True. But feelings didn't listen to reason, did they?

Maggie talked throughout breakfast on her phone. Today she was wearing full make-up. She had pink streaks in her hair, violet eye make-up, and a bright-orange cardigan, loosely belted over jeans. Gone was the dreary black she had been wearing. Perhaps she'd come to a better understanding with Zander overnight? If so, a cautious ‘praise be' was in order.

Maggie shut off her phone. ‘That was a call from a client who must be obeyed. Mrs A., promise me you won't leave the house while I'm gone? We can talk about yesterday when I'm back, which will be mid-morning. I've got paperwork up to here and stuff to run off.' She left with a kiss and an agitated, last-minute instruction to Bea to ring her if anything, but anything should happen!

What should happen, except the sky falling in? It looked like rain, anyway.

Breakfast. Avoid the exploding toaster. Must get another one.

Oliver, coming down the stairs after Maggie had left, said he'd get something to eat on the train as he was all packed up and ready to go. ‘I did say I'd go back early today, but I'm worried about you. Will you contact that inspector friend of yours? I mean, Maggie did tell you what happened yesterday, didn't she?'

Had Maggie said something about yesterday? Bea couldn't think. She said, ‘Don't worry, everything's under control.' As if she couldn't cope with minor problems such as ruining her son and fending off numerous baddies … which reminded her that if Oliver couldn't find Ginevra Benton, she'd better have a look herself.

As Oliver left the house, his last words were that Bea should ring him if anything, but anything at all, happened to worry her.

Alone in the house. Well, if you excepted Winston.

Feed cat. Clear away breakfast dishes. Make a shopping list. For the second time.

There were sounds of movement down below in the agency rooms. In a moment she must go down and pretend to be in charge.

The landline rang while she was picking up her handbag from the sitting room, but stopped before she could get to it. Then her smartphone rang.

Max. ‘You are going to help me out, aren't you?'

She sighed. Sat down on the nearest chair. Steeled herself. ‘We have to talk.'