False Picture (33 page)

Bea got to her feet, moving with care. ‘Velma, could you help me tip up the mattress? It's on the soft side and I think I can feel something hard underneath. Philip kept some correspondence under his bed in the flat. I hardly dare hope, but …'

Velma helped her tip up the mattress and they stared at a sheeted package underneath. Velma whipped off the covering and met the bold eyes of a teenaged girl in a dark dress against a blue sky.

‘Bingo!' said Bea.

‘Millais. Genuine. Those eyes go right through you.'

‘Do we leave it here?'

‘It's as good a place to hide it as anywhere, I suppose.' She let the mattress drop. ‘One more thing before we go.' Bea had noticed a telephone with an answerphone on it in the living room. A red light winked.

She depressed the play button, and heard a young girl's voice. ‘Philip, are you there still? I gave you the wrong number. It's two-oh-eight, not two-eighteen. I told her you'd be there before closing time and it's late on Thursdays and Fridays. Divine, right?'

It was the only message.

‘Doesn't make sense.' Velma sagged against the wall.

Bea said, ‘Come on, put a few things into a bag and I'll take you home.'

Velma locked the door of the flat. ‘Your car or mine?'

Bea held on to her ribs. ‘A taxi. If either of us tried to take a car on the roads at the moment, we'd be arrested for dangerous driving.'

‘In that case,' said Velma, ‘I'll bring a bottle of champagne.'

‘You're on medication!'

‘Champagne's better for me than medication.' She turned pathetic. ‘I've lost my bubble, Bea.'

‘But not your squeak,' said Bea, at which they both laughed inanely.

‘Better than crying,' said Velma, who was doing just that.

Bea wondered how soon the knife man would strike again … and how long it would be before Mr Van arrived on her doorstep.

Rafael had gone back to the flat in Kensington because he couldn't think, for the moment, what else to do. Two gardens he'd had to cross, two walls he'd had to climb before he almost fell into the lap of an elderly man who'd been having a surreptitious cigarette before turning in for the night. Rafael had explained that he'd had a fight with someone at the party nearby, that a woman had scratched him, that he needed to get away. Could the gentleman kindly let him out into the street through his house?

Kind gentleman had done more than that, offering to clean him up, and brush him down. He'd even offered to call the police. Naturally Rafael had refused to have the police involved; it had been a quarrel over a woman, he said. So he'd limped out of the front door of the man's house and with a couple of rests on the way, had managed to get home.

Those two bitches were going to call the police, weren't they? Fortunately they didn't know who he was, or where he lived. There was nothing to connect him with the Weston house except for Philip – who was still missing – and Charlotte, who was out of their reach. All the Maggie bird knew was that Charlotte was going out with someone from the library, and Rafael had never worked in a library. But if Charlotte had talked to Maggie about Ralph, alias Rafael, if Zander recovered full consciousness and
named him … he couldn't risk it. He'd better pack up and move on.

Could he, dare he keep his job at the gallery? It had provided him with information about collectors, it had been useful to him in so many ways, he was reluctant to let it go, but if they once connected harmless-seeming Ralph with the burglaries then he was looking at a long stay in prison. He'd best move on. He
could get another job, not in the West End perhaps, but in any city which boasted an antiques shop or two.

His cheeks burned where that woman had struck him with her talons. Before he left London, he'd get even with her. As soon as he'd replaced his knife, his precious knife.

What would he tell Van? By midday Van would realize he'd been tricked.

Rafael shrugged. What could Van do about it? Rafael took a padded envelope out of his breast pocket, and unwrapped a gold box. Its gleam drew the eye. Total simplicity, costing not less than everything. It was the only thing he'd ever kept from his little jaunts. Its beauty had seduced him as no woman had ever done.

He phoned the gallery to say he'd gone down with flu and wouldn't be in for a while. Now to find another place to stay for a couple of nights, and to buy another knife …

Wednesday morning

B
ea paid off the taxi at her door, and helped Velma up the steps with her overnight bag and make-up box. Velma sagged against the doorframe as Bea sought for her front-door key.

Maggie heard the key in the lock, and rushed out to meet them. ‘Are you all right? Oliver's still missing but he did phone to say he was with an old friend, doing some kind of experiment, if you please. The phone's been ringing off the hook with your son trying to reach you, and Mr Piers and, oh, lots of people. But I don't suppose you want to be bothered with all that. You poor dears, you do look awful. You ought to have let me fetch you from the hospital, and now the police have arrived, but I'm not sure you're up to answering questions, either of you. Are you?'

Velma said, ‘I don't think I am, but I suppose I'd better try.'

Bea held back a sigh. Her ribs hurt and she ached all over. ‘Neither of us is up to it, but ditto. Maggie, could you make up the spare room bed for Mrs Weston? She needs looking after for a while. Perhaps we can persuade Charlotte to—'

‘Oh, she never came back. I waited up till two and rang her mobile, but she didn't answer so I suppose she's with her new boyfriend. I'm really rather cross with her, and if she does come back I'll tell her to go to a B and B or something, right? Would you like some coffee, or some soothing camomile tea?'

‘Camomile tea,' said Bea.

‘Strong black coffee,' said Velma.

‘Camomile tea,' said Bea, firmly. ‘Mrs Weston needs to be careful for a while.'

Velma handed Maggie her bottle of champagne. ‘Too careful means having no fun at all.'

‘Have it just before lunch,' said Maggie, being diplomatic for once. The telephone rang in the agency rooms below and she disappeared, saying she'd deal with it.

Bea and Velma went into the living room. A tall grey man in a grey suit rose from where he'd been contemplating Bea's game of patience by the window. He pulled his ID from his pocket.

‘Detective Inspector Greene, three “e”s.'

A WPC with a sniffly nose materialized behind him, producing her own ID. She mumbled her name so much that Bea failed to catch it.

Bea waved everyone to seats, and sank into one herself. ‘What kind of policeman are you, Detective Inspector? Stolen arts department, common assault, or murder?'

‘Or all three?' Velma subsided on to the settee, graceful even in her fatigue. She closed her eyes. ‘Pretend I'm not here. Wake me when the champagne comes up.'

The DI had a thin smile and heavy lines under his eyes. ‘You rang the station last night. Something about smuggling art treasures. Suppose you tell me all about it.'

‘I suppose,' said Bea, ‘I ought to begin with Lady Farne's murder. Do you know anything about that?'

Velma opened her eyes. ‘Now this I do want to hear.'

‘The Farne case. Yes,' said the grey man. ‘We were asked to look out for the boxes that were stolen.'

‘Not only the boxes,' said Bea. ‘A picture also went missing, which is where we came in …' She tried to tell him the events of the past week in order, and he let her talk, only interrupting a couple of times when she'd not been absolutely clear as to the sequence of events. The WPC took notes, sniffing occasionally.

‘The missing Millais is genuine,' said Bea. ‘I've got a reproduction of it somewhere. I also took photos on my mobile phone of the boxes, the miniatures and of the man who was supposed to collect them from the girls.'

‘Nineteen boxes, you say? There should be twenty.'

‘So I'm told. But there were only nineteen in that consignment.'

At this point Maggie brought in a tray with a cafétiere of coffee on it, and a pot of camomile tea. ‘No champagne?' asked Velma, but accepted tea without further demur.

Bea asked Maggie to remain. ‘We believe one of the missing young men – Charlotte's boyfriend, Liam Forbes – has gone back to Ireland. I expect you can check that. Another one, name of Zander, may have ended up in Central Middlesex Hospital.'

Maggie said, ‘There's a man there who's been knifed and beaten up and looks like Zander, but he didn't seem to recognize me. I didn't like to argue because he looked so poorly, and anyway, there was a policeman at his bedside.'

Bea looked at the clock on the mantelpiece, but it had stopped. It was an old clock with a pre-battery movement. She must have forgotten to wind it. Her watch reported that the day was still young. How soon would Mr Van be arriving?

She forced herself to continue. ‘The man who knifed me last night knew all about the smuggling. I assume he's the mastermind behind the murders of Lady Farne and of Mr Goldstone's friend Leo. He certainly had no compunction about sticking his knife into me. I'm hoping the police will locate him before he finds me again.'

Bea checked her watch again. ‘Now, about this time of day the man called Van should be accessing the bag I left at Bruges station and then all hell will be let loose. He will not be pleased, and I won't feel safe till he knows I've passed the stuff on to the insurance company.'

The DI considered what she'd said. ‘Let's get back to the young man whom Mrs Weston threw out of the window. You say there was no sign of him when you looked out, but you failed to search the garden to see if he were badly hurt.'

Bea said, ‘I was in no fit state to search for him. Mrs Weston had had a stroke. I called an ambulance and we got out.'

‘Do you have a name for this man, or a picture of him on your phone?'

Maggie looked thoughtful. ‘Mrs Abbot, you told Charlotte and me that the man behind the murders must somehow or other be connected with our flat. You say he was small? Not as tall as me?'

Bea said, ‘Mid-brown hair, conservatively cut. Slight build, soft voice, nondescript. If he wore an anorak and jeans you wouldn't look at him twice, but I would say his suit was a good one. He was much stronger than he looked, and when he got going, he projected an aura of, well, violence.'

‘I marked his cheeks,' said Velma, with satisfaction. She spread her beautifully-cared-for hands out. ‘I haven't had time to do my nails since. Do you think I've got his DNA under my fingernails?'

Maggie muttered a name, and repeated it. ‘I think you're talking about Ralph something. From the flat above ours. Works in an art gallery in … Bond Street? I didn't have a chance to talk to him, but Zander said Ralph always had a pretty girl in tow, and he did that night. She was a model, I think. She looked like it, anyway. They left the party early. I can't think of anyone else who matches your description.'

Velma was still holding up her hands. ‘Do we scrape under my fingernails and put the bits in a sealed envelope or something?'

The DI stood up. ‘I'll get someone round to do it for you, Mrs Weston. In the meantime I'd like a look in your house to see if we can find the knife you say this man used on you, and also to check that he's not still lying injured in your garden.'

‘The walls round our gardens are all high, and if he were injured he probably couldn't get out. Serve him right!' said Velma. She tried to get up, and fell back in her seat. ‘But if you don't mind, I'll give you my keys and you can explore as much as you like on your own. I need a restorative nap.'

Bea said, ‘You stay here and rest, Velma. Inspector, I'll come with you, if you like. I know how to turn off the alarm.'

‘We'll need detailed statements from all three of you. And from the other girl … Charlotte, is it?'

‘Tell the truth,' said Maggie, ‘I'm a bit worried about Charlotte. I know her manners are appalling and she's so self-centred she's practically a nut-case, but I did think she'd surface some time this morning before she went off to work. I've tried her mobile and she isn't answering. I rang the library, too, but they say they haven't seen her. If she's gone off with another boyfriend without saying a word … well … she might, mightn't she?'

Bea got to her feet and checked her appearance in the mirror over the fireplace. She realigned her fringe, and sought for lipstick in her handbag, saying, ‘Charlotte is a very silly little girl, with a tongue loose at both ends, but … Oh, I do hope I'm not right, but I'm just wondering how Ralph knew my name and that I'd tricked Mr Van out of the art treasures. Because he did know. Could Charlotte have told him? Could he have been her date last night? Only, Ralph doesn't work in the library, does he?'

Maggie pressed buttons on her phone. ‘Is that the library? Yes? Has Charlotte turned up for work yet? She hasn't? … You've been ringing her but she doesn't answer? She went out last night with someone called Ralph, who works at the library … there isn't anyone at the library called Ralph? Sorry to have troubled you.' She shut off the phone. She'd lost all her usual colour. ‘So where is she?'

The DI got to his feet. ‘Do you want to report her missing? It sounds like a night on the tiles went on too long.'

Bea wasn't sure. ‘I'd agree, if I hadn't been on the receiving end of Ralph's knife. Suppose we leave it for a couple of hours and contact you if she doesn't turn up? Meanwhile, I'll come with you to Mrs Weston's place.' She looked out of the window to see if she should pick up a jacket. ‘Bother, it's raining.'

Maggie wailed, ‘It would! I left my umbrella and raincoat at the flat. Can you drop me off there on your way?'