False Picture (7 page)

She sniffed the air. ‘Ah, me. It takes me back to the days when I first worked for Hamilton, cleaning, cooking, doing everything bar plumbing jobs. I could even rewire plugs in those days. Is the sitting room at the end of the corridor?'

This particular block of flats had gone up in the early years of the twentieth century. Some of the original features, such as coving, picture rails, and fireplaces, had been retained, while an attempt had been made to combine ancient and modern by introducing good quality modern furniture and furnishings. The streamlined seating arrangements in blonde leather matched the cream carpet and the Venetian blinds at the windows. Two rather beautiful Swedish rugs provided accents of colour, but their patterns were smudged with coffee and other, less easily identifiable stains. As was everything else in sight.

Bea sighed. This particular lot of tenants had not been taking good care of things, had they? A blind at one window hung askew, broken, and nobody had bothered to empty the wastepaper basket, attend to rings on the furniture left by coffee mugs and wine glasses, or to clear away the debris left after several takeaways.

‘How long did you say they've been without a cleaner?'

Maggie stripped off her jacket. ‘Too long. I couldn't start clearing up last night, or they'd have me down to clean the place all the time. I'll begin on the kitchen and the boys' bathroom, shall I? Give you time to poke about, see what you can find. Our room's right at the other end of the corridor, you can't miss it. The ugly duckling says she could have moved into a single and made two of the boys share but no one else wanted to share, and anyway our room's enormous, almost like a little flat in itself, and she keeps that and our shower room next door clean enough. She won't let the boys anywhere near it, so you can forget our bit. Zander's room is next to the living room, and the other bod, the one who went out early, he's opposite. Which means that Philip must be …'

Bea tried doors. The boys' bathroom was going to need Mr Muscle himself to make an impression on the grime, the same went for a toilet next door … and the one after that was Philip's room.

Bea donned apron and rubber gloves before touching anything. There was a mixture of modern and Edwardian furniture in Philip's room, which was not large and whose window overlooked a wall and not the street. The bed looked new, as did the carpet and curtains, but both bore the marks of someone who drank – and smoked – in bed. ‘Yuck!' said Maggie. ‘What a fug!'

There was no sign of a Victorian oil painting, or of a package which might have contained one. The room smelled of dirty washing, the curtains were drawn against the light, the bedclothes were all over the place and a pair of pyjama bottoms was on the floor. The doors of a large built-in wardrobe hung open, the clothes inside were mostly on the floor instead of hanging on the rail, though a couple of empty dry-cleaners' plastic bags informed Bea that he – or someone else – had looked after his belongings better in the past.

A digital clock flashed on the bedside table, beside an empty wine bottle, a dirtied tumbler, some used tissues, an empty pack of cigarettes and a burned out lighter.

‘Typical,' said Maggie, arms akimbo.

Bea waded through the stir fry on the floor to the window. She drew back the curtains and opened the window so that they could see and breathe properly, almost falling over something on the carpet, which turned out to be a mobile phone. On the table by the window was a takeaway foil dish which Philip had been using for an ashtray, a freebie paper a couple of days old, and a stained and almost empty coffee mug.

Bea picked the mobile phone up, dusted it down and tried to switch it on, but the battery was dead. Bea slipped it into one of the large envelopes she'd brought with her, tucking it into the largest pocket in her apron.

Maggie objected. ‘You can't do that. It's stealing.'

‘There may be some messages on it. If he's disappeared, it may just help us – or the police – to find him.'

Maggie's mouth made an ‘o' and she made no further objection. ‘I expect you'll want to search his clothes. You won't need me for that. See you in a bit.'

Bea looked around. Still no sign of the missing picture. There was no laptop, either, but there was a spell-checker, and a couple of boys' toys, music orientated, a scatter of DVDs on the floor, a small telly which looked second-hand and possibly didn't work, a dead whisky bottle in the wastepaper basket and another under the bed.

Might the picture be under the bed? Alas, no. There was enough dust to make Bea sneeze plus a broken pen and some screwed-up pieces of paper. She teased the scraps out. Receipts for wine and whisky from a local convenience store. Oh, and the charger for the phone, which he'd probably dropped and kicked under the bed by accident. She surmised that without the charger the phone was no use to him, so he'd abandoned it, as he seemed to have abandoned many of his other belongings. She fished the phone out of her pocket, plugged it in to charge and switched it on.

A couple of drawers in the table by the window were filled with coupons torn from newspapers but never redeemed, out of date lottery tickets, some contraceptives and repeat prescriptions from a local doctor. Philip had been on antibiotics recently, but his ongoing repeat prescriptions were for antidepressants. Antidepressants, antibiotics and whisky didn't go together, did they?

There were two unframed photos propped up against a pile of
Men Only
type magazines on a scuffed chest of drawers. Girls in the almost altogether. Or had they been cut from magazines? No, they were real photos. Philip had obviously had the occasional girlfriend in the past, but not recently – according to Velma, who might or might not be biased. The dust was thick on the chest of drawers, except where a couple of framed photos seemed to have been standing until recently. Had Philip taken them away for some reason? Perhaps they had been of his father and mother? Or another girlfriend?

The bedside table drawer yielded aspirins, empty packs of prescription drugs, a couple of condoms. Dust. A small notebook filled with columns of numbers … what was that all about?

The bedclothes were rank. Bea stripped the bed and bundled the dirty bedclothes into one of the dry-cleaners' bags. ‘Do we have any clean bedding?'

‘He should have his own,' Maggie yelled back from down the corridor. ‘Charlotte told me to bring my own and I did. Well, I borrowed from you, but I suppose that's all right.'

Bea opened a double-fronted, built-in cupboard, cascading smelly sports equipment on to the floor. On the top shelf of the cupboard were two sets of laundered bedlinen, still in their laundry bags. Bea smiled to herself, imagining Velma making sure he had everything clean when he moved in. Mind you, it didn't look as if he'd changed the sheets in weeks.

There was also a space where a man might conceivably have stored an empty suitcase or rucksack. Surely that was one item a flat-sharer would be bound to have? She thought of the items of luggage Maggie had brought with her the previous night; a large old suitcase which predated wheels, a sports bag and a couple of outsize carrier bags. So what luggage had Philip brought with him when he moved in? And where was it now? It did rather look as if he'd hastily packed a few things into – whatever – and lit out for parts unknown.

Bea started to make the bed with the clean linen, only to find that one set was incomplete. There was a duvet cover and two pillow cases, but no bottom sheet. What on earth had he done with it? She checked over the second set. That was complete.

Then she had an idea. She tipped up the mattress and discovered a flattened business envelope addressed to Mr P. Weston. It contained a flock of bank and credit card statements which made dire reading and a letter from a production company in Soho, dated a fortnight ago, terminating Mr Weston's employment after he'd ignored three previous written warnings about being drunk at work. There was also a polite letter on good notepaper from a club Bea had never heard of, reminding Mr Weston to pay his overdue account.

‘Trouble.' Bea was thinking aloud. ‘No job. No income. What was he living on?'

Maggie, also rubber-gloved, appeared in the doorway. ‘I forgot to say, I think Philip's not paid his rent for a while. I was only half listening but the men were griping about it, saying it was just as well I'd come to join them to help with the rent.'

‘Could you look to see how many shaving outfits are in the boys' bathroom?'

Maggie was loving this. ‘You think he's done a runner?' She vanished, only to return within a minute. ‘Two lots, in expensive toilet cases, one plain and one with a monogram of a letter “L” on it. Which means …?'

‘Philip's is not there. This is getting complicated. I really ought to have brought a special camera with me to take copies of his paperwork, because I don't understand what's going on.'

‘Like James Bond? His cameras are all disguised as something else, though, aren't they?'

Bea made a note of the club name on the letterhead and made up the bed, leaving the paperwork in place. She picked up the dirty clothing piece by piece, exploring pockets. Nothing but receipts and reminders of unpaid bills … there was also a letter from the gym pointing out that his membership had lapsed and suggesting that he renew. No wonder he hadn't been back there for a while.

She hung up the clothing that still looked reasonably clean, and stuffed the dirty bits and pieces into another dry-cleaner's bag. She tried to get the hoover going – it was an asthmaticky old thing – and failed. The carpet sweeper was clogged with hairs. She cleaned it out and did her best with it.

She considered wiping down all the dusty surfaces in the room but desisted in case the police had to be called in and looked for fingerprints. They wouldn't like her having changed the bed linen, either, but she'd left everything else in place, hadn't she? Well, except for the mobile phone.

If Philip turned up, then she'd have a go at the windows, which could do with a wash, and there were some unidentifiable stains on the carpet which needed specialist attention. However, the room looked and smelled a lot better than before.

She stood in the doorway, scanning the room. Had she overlooked anything? Possibly a trained policeman would have been able to draw a more accurate picture of Philip from looking over his things? Was she getting a false picture of him? She told herself it was wrong to jump to conclusions, but no, she didn't think she had. Philip was a bit of a layabout. He'd not told anyone he'd lost his job, he was in debt, drinking and taking tranquillizers. Plus it rather looked as if he'd lit out for parts unknown with a valuable picture, leaving no forwarding address.

She unplugged his mobile phone, hoping that even this short period might have charged it up. It had, a bit. She saw there were various messages on it, but wasn't sure how to access them, as the phone was a different type from hers. So she popped it and the charger into one of the large pockets in her apron, to be looked at later.

She passed on to the next room, the one occupied by Maggie's favourite, Zander. Was his name short for Alexander? Possibly. She wasn't going to search this room, but clean it quickly and pass on to the next. Correction; she would just check to see if the painting had been put in here for safe keeping.

Zander's room was slightly larger than Philip's, better furnished and much better maintained. Unlike Philip's room – which had given the impression of a transient dossing down for a few days – Zander's indicated a man who'd made himself very much at home. Zander was tidy, and looked after his expensive clothes. There was fluff under his bed, but no oil painting. Nor was it in the wardrobe or closet, or any of the drawers. However, there was a large suitcase and a sports bag there, which was as it should be.

His paperwork was neatly docketed in files in the drawers of a modern desk, not locked. Everything looked above board. Squeaky clean? He kept all his monthly wage slips, had a healthy balance at the bank, paid off his credit cards on the dot, his job brought him in a decent salary, he had direct debits on. … yes, yes. Very sensible, very well organized. She didn't know why she was looking at his paperwork. Habit, she supposed.

Another file contained his CV … yes, yes. It all looked good. Almost too good to be true. There was a locked briefcase under the desk which probably contained his passport, cheque book, that sort of thing.

There was no laptop, but Bea could see the mark in the dust where it usually sat. Headphones for listening to music, a brand new flat-screen telly and DVD player. A stereo sound system. A camera, digital. Lots of books in a bookcase nearby; paperbacks of modern authors on the trendy side. Condoms in the bedside table drawer, no medication except some Piriton and a pack of paracetomol.

Zander had thrust some lovingly phrased notes from females into his bedside drawer, higgledy-piggledy, as if they didn't warrant being filed away. Bea got the impression that Zander probably operated most of his contacts by text message.

Two photos, not of girls, but of family groups; parents and siblings, presumably. Bea wondered vaguely what country Zander's family was from originally. Had Maggie said Grenada?

Bea looked under the mattress, but there was nothing there. She made the bed, charged around with the carpet sweeper and dusted with a damp cloth. The place looked a lot better.

And then … the front door opened, and someone called out, ‘Hallo?'

Bea froze.

Into the dimness of the corridor came a girl who could only be Charlotte, the ugly duckling. She had a fringe of dark hair which hugged her cheeks, dark glasses, and was wearing a black suit which was all the wrong shape for her. There was a hectic flush on podgy cheeks, and she was talking in a squeaky voice.

‘Are you there, Maggie? They're driving me mad at work and if one more person asks me for change for the photocopier, I'll kill them!' She caught sight of Bea, and stopped short. ‘So you're the new cleaner, are you? You understand you're only here on a week's trial?'