False Money (2 page)

‘What?'

He leaned forward, confident at last that she would listen. ‘Some people look drab and ordinary when you film them, and some light up. The planes of their cheekbones reflect the light, they can act with their eyes, and when they turn their heads they still look elegant. Tomi is—'

‘Who?'

‘Tomi. Short for Tomilola, which is short for something else. Her parents are Nigerian, doctors, came here when she was two. Her name means “God is enough for me”. Cute, isn't it?'

Bea struggled with the impulse to box his ears. ‘I am not even going to ask who Tomi is. For the umpteenth time, get out of here!'

‘No, no. You're not listening. Tomi is not a professional actress, of course – she works for some magazine or other during the week – but she's the main character in the short film I made last year, which won that special award, remember? The one which my father said if I won the award I could leave uni and concentrate on film-making?'

‘He didn't think you'd win.'

‘I know that!' He grinned. ‘Of course, it was a fluke, and entirely unexpected and all that, but the fact is that the rest of the entrants were all terribly dreary and worthy and making left-wing political propaganda, whereas mine was thoughtful and, well, fun. People like fun. Especially when the going gets rough. And it's gone down a storm on YouTube.' He sobered up, allowing Bea a glimpse of the real Chris, layers below his usual light-heartedness.

Bea's hands dropped from her keyboard. ‘So Tomi is someone you've known for quite a while, and you believe she's not the sort to let you down. So what happened?'

His eyes dropped from her, and he picked at a speck of dirt on his jeans. ‘She's disappeared. We were having a half of bitter together in the pub up the road one Saturday morning, and I was telling her what I'd like to work on next, and we got arguing about shadows and how they could be distorted. That's what my next film is going to be about: people having the wrong shadows, or no shadow at all, and what that might mean. It's a folklore tale set in modern London. Tomi was enthusiastic about it, hinted she might know someone who could put some money into it, which I'm telling you would be just great. Well, that doesn't matter now.

‘The thing is, we went on to the library to take out some books on artists who use shadows in different ways, and there were quite a few, so she helped me carry the books out. I got talking to a friend outside, and she said she needed to catch up with someone on the other side of the road and went over to talk to them, and that was the last I saw of her. I rushed back home because I was going on to a party that night. She wasn't there, but I didn't think anything of it because we know all sorts of people and she might well have been going to someone else's do. Only, next morning I discovered she'd walked off with a couple of my books.

‘It was a good party and I didn't surface again till Sunday evening, when I rang her, but she didn't pick up. So on Monday I went round to her place, and her flatmate said she must have slept over with a friend, though she didn't usually. I expected to hear from her. Nothing. On Wednesday I rang her at work, but she'd sent them a text to say she'd taken some holiday time due to her and had gone to France for a week.'

‘Just like that?'

‘Just like that. So this Monday I tried everyone all over again. They've heard nothing from her at work and are most annoyed and surprised that she's let them down. I tried her flatmate again. She said she'd had a text, too, saying Tomi had decided to go off with a friend who'd offered her a lift in his car touring France, and that she didn't know when she'd be back. Tomi hadn't left any money to pay for her room, and the flatmate was not pleased. She said she'd tried Tomi's mobile phone and left a message, just as I'd done. Tomi hasn't rung her back, either. The flatmate can't afford to keep the flat on by herself so she's cleared Tomi's things out of her room and is going to relet.'

‘Flatmate's name?' said Bea, intrigued despite herself.

‘I have it here for you, and the address. Flatmate doesn't approve of me. Thinks I'm feckless; can't imagine why.'

Bea took the piece of paper. A foreign name, an address not far off. ‘What about the man she went over to talk to, last time you saw her?'

‘The thing is, I didn't really see who it was. Someone I know came up to me and we were chatting, you know how it is. Tomi said she was off, and I said, “See you!” or words to that effect, and that was it. It might have been anyone. A friend from her church, perhaps? They disapprove of me, needless to say. Tomi's a committed churchgoer, by the way, and terribly moral, but she doesn't talk about it to me because I get the giggles when religion's mentioned.'

He held up his hand to warn off Bea's protest. ‘Of course, that's very naughty of me, and I'll probably straighten out in middle age, but that's the way it is at the moment.'

Bea blinked and tried to recap on what he'd said. ‘Going back to the flatmate. Miss . . .' She accessed the piece of paper with the name on. ‘Drobny? Is that right? You went round and asked her if you might look for your books, and—'

‘She let me in, under supervision. She breathed on me heavily all the time I was going through Tomi's things, which were piled up in the hallway. The books weren't there. At least, I couldn't spot them. Tomi might have left them somewhere else in the flat, but the flatmate didn't like me being there and wouldn't let me look.'

Bea got up and went over to the windows. The late afternoons were getting lighter, but the sun didn't seem to have much warmth in it yet. Twilight was beginning to shroud the paved garden, but the sycamore tree at the end – still leafless – made pretty patterns against the sky. Through the tree she could see the floodlit spire of St Mary's Church.

Tomi was a Christian. Tomi was a hard-working, responsible girl. It wasn't like her to go off on a bender.

Bea checked that the French windows to the garden were locked, tested the security grille, let down the blind, and drew the floor-length curtains. From above her office came the faint sounds of pans clashing together in the kitchen. Maggie loved to cook when she got home. Bea had missed lunch and was looking forward to supper.

Chris hadn't moved. He was waiting for her to pull the rabbit out of the hat for him.

‘She has a boyfriend?'

‘Someone called Harry. A Hooray Henry.' Chris pulled a face. ‘He rubs me up the wrong way. I did ask him. He got a text message from her too, saying she was off to France for a break. He's . . . Well, he was upset, but says now that he wasn't serious about her. Got another girl in tow.'

‘Tomi's beautiful?'

He screwed up his face. ‘Not strictly. Too long a nose. But stunning. I haven't a single shot of her which makes her look dull. There aren't many girls with faces like that, you know.' He narrowed his eyes. ‘You'd probably be the same. Some time, when I need an older woman, I'll see what the camera can do for you.'

‘Thank you, but no thank you.' She'd been there, done that, and knew such promises were rarely kept. Bea's first husband, Piers, was a well-known portrait painter. He'd talked about painting her several times, but had never got round to it. ‘Back to Tomi. What do you think has happened to her?'

‘I tried the police, if that's what you mean. They say she's old enough to look after herself and if she wants to disappear, she can. I've rung round the hospitals – that was my father's suggestion, by the way. Nothing. Her job's in jeopardy, of course. They're furious that she hasn't been in contact.'

‘She texted her workplace, her flatmate and her boyfriend, but not you. What happened when you tried her phone?'

‘She didn't pick up. A voice said to leave a message. So I did. Three, maybe four times. She hasn't got back to me. I'm worried about her.' He rose to his feet without needing to hold on to the desk or chair.

Oh, to be so young and supple.

‘She's not my girlfriend, you understand. I only go for blondes. She's just . . . an itch at the back of my mind.'

‘And you want her back, to start making your next film.'

‘I can get a dozen girls to stand before the camera and go through the motions. None of them have her presence, or patience. Or real talent. But if she doesn't turn up soon, I might have to start looking around for a substitute.' He gave her a stark look, allowing her to see his concern. ‘Dad said you'd find her if anyone could. I asked Oliver. He knows her, and he's worried, too. He'll be back when term ends, won't he? He could help you.'

‘Did you look to see if her passport was with her things?'

He flushed. ‘I didn't think of it. What a fool I am!'

‘I suppose I could see if it's still at her flat. I can't promise anything, but if her passport's gone, then I think you may have to resign yourself to looking for another film star.'

TWO

B
ea saw Chris out of the door, checked that everything in the office area was safely locked up for the night, and sat down to email Oliver.

She signed off as ‘Bea' and hit the ‘send' button.

Oliver was not her son by birth. Of mixed race, he'd been adopted as a baby by a professional couple, but had never fitted in and had been tossed out into the world when an undersized but brainy eighteen year old. Dragged home to Bea by Maggie, and tutored by a man who ate computers for starters, Oliver had blossomed into a well-balanced young man who'd been the mainstay of Bea's agency till – a year late – he went up to Oxford. He'd recently taken Bea's name, discarding the one he'd been given when adopted. Perhaps one day he'd seek out his birth parents; perhaps not. The main thing was that he understood Bea and Maggie loved him and that he could always rely on them, even though Bea was old enough to be his grandmother.

She'd asked him to use her first name, and perhaps some time soon he'd manage it. She shut down her computer and knocked something on to the floor. A DVD, which certainly had not been there before. Had Chris left it there? Ah. Yes. The label said it contained his short film, the one which had so unexpectedly won a prize for an independent production. She dropped it into the waste-paper basket. Then retrieved it with a sigh and put it in the pocket of her trousers.

Should she view it now? No, it was getting late; she was tired and hungry. She rescued the flowers Chris had given her and climbed the stairs to the ground floor of her Georgian house. She checked that the grilles were locked over the windows at the back and front of the big through living room, straightened the portrait of her dear dead husband, which the cleaner always left askew, and drew the floor-length curtains. She found a vase and popped Chris's bouquet into it, placing it on the coffee table in front of the fireplace.

‘It's up!' said Maggie, appearing in the doorway, mobile phone to ear. Meaning supper was up, presumably. Maggie disappeared into the kitchen; tall and gangly, her hair black and spiky this week, her outfit consisted of orange and green layers over jeans and was finished off with enormous moon boots. Maggie was scared of men and dressed to frighten them away.

Maggie was not brilliant at office work, but had a talent for project-managing alterations to houses and flats. She got on with everyone from the highest paid architect to the lowliest of plumbers, provided they didn't ask her out for a date.

In the kitchen Bea spotted their long-haired black cat sitting fatly on the work surface, waiting for titbits. Maggie half-heartedly swiped at him. He drew back to avoid her hand, then laid himself down again in exactly the same place. Winston. Another orphan who'd homed in on Bea.