False Picture (28 page)

‘Some men do,' said Piers. ‘It's rather hard on their womenfolk, isn't it?'

Charlotte made an effort. ‘Oh, that sort of thing doesn't bother me.'

The front door slammed and Maggie walked into the kitchen. She looked pale and tired. ‘It's him,' she said. ‘But not him. A policeman's waiting at his bedside for him to remember what happened.'

Early Tuesday evening

Rafael left the gallery early, giving the excuse that he had a headache. And indeed he had. Tension, of course. He always felt tense before a job. Afterwards, he was higher than a kite without the need to resort to drugs. He didn't do drugs.

He took the bus back to Kensington High Street and walked down through back streets to the Boltons, noting residents returning from work and play. Rich kids, wealthy parents, 4 x 4s. Shopping bags from Harrods and Harvey Nichols. Day nannies, foreign. Live-in au pairs, likewise. Money, money, money.

When he reached the house, he thought he heard water running from a down pipe somewhere. There was an unobtrusive door set to one side of the main building; it looked like an entry to staff quarters. Bingo! That's where Philip was hiding out! Under the protection of his father, but not under his feet.

Rafael decided to wait till it was dark and ring the bells at both the front and side doors, pretending to be Liam. One way or another, he'd be in there tonight.

He rubbed his temples. The headache wasn't going away. Curse Liam! Everything was so much more difficult without him. The girls ought to be back from Bruges by now. Perhaps it would be
as well to check on them, make sure they didn't talk to anyone about what had happened. He'd pop in to see them on his way home.

Tuesday evening

M
aggie made for the nearest stool. Unusually, she looked frail. ‘Is there a cuppa on the go? Quiet in here, isn't it?' She switched the television on automatically as she sat down, but didn't notice when Piers reached behind her to switch it off again.

Bea switched the kettle on again. ‘Take it slowly.'

Charlotte was spoiling for a fight. ‘Where have you been? I've been at my wits' end, wondering what had happened to you, and that woman you say is your boss was so rude to me, you wouldn't believe!'

‘I'm exhausted, Charlotte,' said Maggie, pressing fingers to eyelids. ‘So would you please shut up for once? Other people have their troubles, too, you know.'

‘Well!' Charlotte stormed out of the room, and could be heard banging her way up the stairs.

Bea hoped Charlotte had gone to pack, but didn't count on it. She passed Maggie a mug of tea. ‘It is Zander, is it?'

‘I think so, but he didn't know me. He's had a kicking.' She shuddered. ‘His head's shaved and bandaged. He's concussed from here to eternity. He was stabbed in the back but thankfully that's not done too much damage. There was a policeman there, waiting for him to come round. The policeman wanted to know my name and address but I said I wouldn't give it until I knew if it were my boyfriend or not.

‘Zander opened his eyes a couple of times, but didn't recognize me. At least, I don't think he did. The policeman leaned over him to ask what was his name, and did he remember what had happened to him. He thought a bit. You could see it hurt him to think. He said, “I don't know. Am I in hospital? What's happened? I can't remember.” Only he couldn't speak clearly because his poor face had been banged about.

‘I was going to say, “Your name is Zander,” and give the address of the flat, but I didn't. I wasn't at all sure that it was Zander, you see. Or rather, I was sure, but if he'd been beaten up by Liam and was afraid to say who he was, then I wasn't going to give him away. So I said he wasn't my flatmate and came away. It's Zander, all right, but he doesn't want to admit it. And I'm not going to cry!'

‘Brave girl,' said Bea, and the two men harrumphed agreement. ‘Well, I suppose he's safe for the moment. Like us, he's playing for time.'

Charlotte banged back into the room. She was wearing the jacket in which she'd travelled that morning, and she dragged her suitcase behind her. ‘I'm not staying here. You can argue all you like but I know when I'm not wanted. I'm not staying at the flat all by myself, either, so Maggie had better come back with me.'

‘You must be joking,' said Maggie, hunching her shoulders and taking both hands to her mug of tea.

Bea looked at her watch. How many hours till Mr Van discovered that he'd been fooled? Answer; not enough.

She said, ‘Charlotte, cards on the table. For your own safety, you'd better stay here. I'd never forgive myself if you went back to the flat and ended up in hospital.'

‘Why should I? I'm in no danger.'

‘As soon as Mr Van discovers he's getting two litre bottles of water instead of gold boxes and miniatures, he's going to—'

‘What? Why should he? You handed the presents over, didn't you?'

Bea told herself not to lose her temper. Through her teeth, she said, ‘Of course I didn't hand them over. I substituted something that weighed approximately the same as—'

Charlotte said, ‘I don't believe this! You cannot be serious! Why, when he finds out, he'll—'

‘Be rather cross,' said Bea. ‘Yes. He'll come after us with a hatchet, if I read him aright.'

‘But that's … you've got to ring the police!' Charlotte thought about that, and recanted. ‘But that would get Liam into trouble, wouldn't it? We must warn him.'

‘Liam,' said Maggie, ‘can go to—'

Bea intervened. ‘That's not helpful, Maggie. Charlotte, Liam's back in Ireland, we think. With a girlfriend, who is not, repeat not, called Patsy. He's applied for a job in a travel agency there. If you can think of any way to contact him, then please do. We need to talk to him, urgently. Somewhere out there Liam's boss is waiting to hear that the stolen goods have reached Mr Van safely. Some time tomorrow morning he's going to hear that they haven't, and he's going to come looking for Liam. When he doesn't find Liam, he's going to come looking for you two girls, and he won't be bringing you bunches of flowers. Think, Charlotte! Who is it who got you into this smuggling lark? It must be someone who knows you as well as Liam.'

Charlotte put on a sulky face. ‘I don't know anyone like that.'

Maggie stared at Charlotte, unbelieving. ‘Think, Charlotte. This man's capable of murder.'

Bea went one further. ‘You think, too, Maggie. There's a limited time scale here. You only moved into the flat last Friday. Who did you meet who fits the bill? Remember, this is someone who knows you, or knows about you through Liam and Charlotte. Think hard. Who did you meet at the flat?'

Maggie put her hands to her head. ‘Not Philip; he'd already disappeared. Zander; it can't be him, can it? No, no. He's no mastermind, and anyway, he's been in hospital since Sunday night.'

Charlotte gaped. ‘Zander in hospital? Why?'

‘He got knifed and beaten up.'

Charlotte grinned. ‘There you are then. He's the mastermind and it was he who persuaded Liam to take us over to Belgium. He's the one!'

Maggie snapped a look at Bea, shaking her head slightly. ‘It's not Zander; he's too scared to admit who he is. It's not Liam; he's so scared, he's done a runner. The only other people I met at the flat were upstairs at the party.'

Charlotte was scornful. ‘Not a party. Just a friendly get-together, which we have most Friday nights. Sometimes it's up in their flat, sometimes it's in ours. Sometimes next door. It's the same people, all the time. Well, mostly. They come and go. Brian and Fudge from upstairs got married in May and moved out and someone else moved into Brian's room, but they're keeping Fudge's room on for a bit because they've got the builders in at their new place and so they're storing a lot of their stuff at the flat for a while. A girl called Lou something moved into Brian's room. Works in a bank. Tall girl.'

‘I remember her,' said Maggie. ‘Six foot two plus high heels. Black. All over a tubby little fellow with thinning hair—'

‘That's Alfred. He's something important in the City, gets big bonuses. He's moving out soon, buying a flat in St Katherine's Dock. Then there's the gay couple who share the biggest bedroom, the one that's like mine, but it wouldn't be them. Nor Ralph. He works in an art gallery somewhere, never has anything to say for himself but always brings a girl, never the same girl twice, don't know where he gets them from or what they see in him. And Sprouts. Well, his name's not really that, of course; it's a nickname because he says he likes Brussel sprouts. Now he's weird, if you like. Sort of dark and glowering, eats crisps all the time, drinks Perrier water, no fun at all, if you ask me. Though sometimes we get stuck with one another watching a DVD late at night, if you know what I mean. It can't be any of them … except perhaps Sprouts, I suppose. Yes, it could be him.'

‘That's six people,' said Bea, who'd been counting on her fingers. ‘I thought the flats only held five?'

‘Well, a couple of them are from another flat across the landing. Sprouts and the banker. Either of them could be it, I suppose.'

Bea was trying to keep up. ‘Are you telling me that anyone in the building has an open invitation to your Friday nights?'

‘Sort of. I suppose. People bring friends. People move on and come back to visit us. Brian and Fudge came back last Friday … no, maybe it was the Friday before. Do you remember them, Maggie?'

‘I didn't talk to anyone much except Zander,' said Maggie. ‘Wish I had.'

Oliver was trying to slot names into box shapes on his pad. ‘How do you divide up the rent, and how do you get new flatmates?'

Charlotte explained, ‘One of us takes on the lease and collects the rent, which we divide equally between the five of us, even though some rooms are nicer than others. I hold the lease for our flat. If a room falls vacant we usually know someone who's looking for a place, or we advertise in the
Telegraph
. Occasionally the estate agency contacts us to say they've got someone enquiring for a room but usually, between all the people we know, we can fill the vacancy.'

The front doorbell rang. A solid, urgent peal. Everyone jumped. Piers said, ‘I'm nearest,' and went to open the door.

In stalked Velma.

At least, it was a walking, trembling semblance of Bea's old friend. Her lipstick – usually so carefully applied – was a scarlet slash that went crookedly over one cheek. She was wearing a designer black-and-white summer dress … and bedroom slippers.

She didn't take her eyes off Bea. In a high, unnatural-sounding voice, she said, ‘I don't think I parked the car too well. Would someone see to it, please?'

Bea said, ‘My dear, what is it?'

Velma opened her mouth wide and screamed. Eyes closed, hands clenched, she screeched so loudly that birds in the garden below took off in fright.

Bea whispered, ‘My God. Sandy's dead!'

Velma flung herself on Bea, still screaming, punching her, hands raised to scratch.

Piers grabbed Velma from behind and hauled her off, kicking, still screaming.

Bea tried to grab Velma's flailing hands, and managed to capture and hold one of them, while Oliver caught the other.

Velma went limp, head going down, arms relaxing, knees buckling.

Piers said, ‘I've got her. I'll carry her through to the sitting room. Get her a brandy, someone.'

‘We don't have any,' murmured Bea, her mind racing. Velma was in shock. What an awful thing! Piers laid Velma out on the settee and pulled the spare-room duvet over her. Velma's eyes were closed. She still trembled, but there was no more fight in her.

Bea pulled up a stool and sat beside Velma, taking one of her hands in hers, stroking it, feeling her friend's grief flow into her.

Charlotte said, loudly, ‘So that's where the duvet off my bed went to!'

‘Hush,' said Maggie. ‘Mrs Abbot, what can I do to help?'

Velma opened her eyes, staringly bright, whites showing. She focused on Bea. ‘I trusted you to find Philip, and you failed me.'

‘We did our best,' said Bea.

‘Not good enough,' said Velma. She shook off the duvet and threw Bea's hand aside. ‘I was going mad at the hospital, sitting at his bedside, talking to him, telling him he was getting better all the time when I could see that he was marking time, waiting for Philip. And then I realized, silly me, that of course he loved Philip far more than he loved me, and I hadn't let myself believe it before, but finally I did and I went off home for a break to change my clothes and have a shower and they rang me … they rang me. A massive heart attack, they said. So sorry, they said.'

She pulled herself into a sitting position, head hanging, fingers twitching.

‘Yes,' said Bea, pulling one of Velma's hands back into her own and chafing it. ‘You felt guilty at leaving him even for such a short time and …'

‘Did you?' Velma asked, tucking in her chin, lifting her head to look sideways at Bea.

Bea nodded. There had been one day when she'd left Hamilton's bedside and walked and walked, she didn't know or care where, so long as it was away from the hospital. When she got back, worn out, later that evening, they told her he'd asked for her, before slipping into the coma from which he never woke. Yes, she knew that guilt.

Velma pulled away from Bea, and clapped both hands over her eyes. She rocked to and fro, keening. ‘He died as soon as my back was turned. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves Philip, he loves me not.'

‘He loved you a lot,' said Bea. ‘I saw it in his face when we met. Of course he loved his son, too. But he loved you with all his heart.'