False Report (20 page)

A police car drew to a halt behind them.

Bea tore a fingernail, but still couldn't release Jeremy. ‘Oh dear. We're blocking the road. I do hope Jeremy has enough air in there.'

‘Hold him as still as you can.' Piers produced his nail scissors and cut a small hole in the top of the plastic bag. ‘Careful does it.'

Jeremy continued to thrash around and scream.

‘Calm down, Jeremy,' said Bea. ‘You're only making matters worse by wriggling.'

‘Hello, hello. What's all this, then? Someone had too much to drink? Been playing a prank that went wrong?' A braying laugh. A policeman who fancied himself as a comic. Couldn't he see they were trying to rescue someone tied up in a plastic sack?

Bea asked the policeman, ‘Have
you
got a knife?' He was in uniform and equipped with the latest technology, but didn't seem to have the brains to match. His mate – a woman – stayed in the police car, talking to someone on her phone.

‘Knife? What would I be doing with . . . Ah, someone's been messing around, here, have they? Kids, was it?'

‘Attempted kidnapping and murder,' said Bea, trying to enlarge the tiny hole Piers had made. Unfortunately, Jeremy kept wriggling and mewing, and the plastic was so old and thick that it resisted her efforts. The bag was strong. It reminded her of something. Sacks that were used for garden compost?

The policeman was still laughing as he turned in his report on his walkie-talkie. ‘Got it. Disturbance in the street. Man in a body bag. Well, sort of. Neighbours attending. A right pair of jokers here. A prank that's gone wrong, looks like.'

‘Let me have a go.' A bass voice. Bea looked up to see a very large man with a ponytail. He must be fifteen stone or thereabouts and bulged with muscle, not fat. He was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and denims. A long, well-honed knife appeared at Bea's side. ‘You sit on his legs, missus, and you, my man, you hold him tight. I'll carve because I'm the chef, right?'

His knife ripped down the side of the bag, and Jeremy's head popped out, eyelids swollen shut, skin a deep scarlet. He was incoherent, spitting with rage and pain.

‘Water,' said the big man, producing a large bottle from his back pocket. ‘Hold his hands away from his face. Keep his head steady and pour the water on his face, especially his eyes.'

‘What?' That was Piers.

‘Mace,' said the big man. ‘Sprayed into his eyes. Makes them swell up. Needs washing off, sharpish.'

Bea seized the bottle and started pouring, while Piers held Jeremy's body firmly against himself.

The big man continued, ‘We was watching from the flat above, the one what used to be the little man's, right? We see him coming along the road, lickety-split, and then this other man steps out in front of him and sprays him in the face with a can of mace. Little chap goes down, screaming. You don't see action like that every day in our street, do you? That's when I rang for the police and an ambulance.'

‘We certainly need an ambulance,' said Bea. ‘His eyes!'

The policeman was laughing, amused by what he took to be a joke gone wrong. ‘If it's mace, he won't be able to see straight for hours.'

The big man ripped away at the bag, trying to free Jeremy. ‘The name's Jason. Of Jason's Place. That's my caff. Keep pouring, missus. Slurp, slurp; that's the ticket. Over and over.'

Bea obeyed. Jeremy howled.

The policeman got out his notebook. ‘You called for an ambulance, right? Assault, was it? Does he want to press charges? And you; what are you doing, carrying a knife in the street? Don't you know it's illegal?'

‘Idiot!' No one could be sure whether Bea meant Jeremy or the policeman, but the knife disappeared.

Jason continued to smile. ‘That's it, missus. Keep pouring. It's the only thing that will help. No, officer; you must be mistaken. I haven't any knife. This passer-by must have cut the sack open with his little scissors. Are you going to charge him for that?'

Jason picked Jeremy up under his arms and shook him out of the sack. And laid him down again on the road. ‘You haven't seen any knife, have you, missus?'

‘Certainly not,' said Bea. ‘Now, officer; would you care to take charge of the bag, which may reveal some clues as to the attack on my friend here?'

A large stomach insinuated itself between Bea and the policeman. ‘If I can get a word in edgeways. Officer, arrest this man!'

‘Which man?' asked the policeman. ‘Is this another joke?'

‘No joke!' The landlord bent over Jeremy to shout, ‘Did you arrange this to get out of paying what you owe me? Because if so; it didn't work!'

Jeremy spluttered and cursed.

The policeman looked amused. ‘So who am I to charge with assault, then? What's
your
name, sir?'

Bea said, ‘You need the man in the van.'

The policeman looked around. ‘What van?'

Indeed, what van!

‘There was a van, a white van,' said Bea. ‘No markings. Number plate obscured. Two men came in it. The one who jumped our friend here—'

‘Popped this sack over him, neat as can be,' said Jason. ‘We was watching upstairs, waiting for him. And there he was, being picked up like a roll of carpet and dumped into the van. That's when we called for the police, just as a law-abiding citizen should.'

Was Jason a law-abiding citizen? For some reason Bea doubted it. He'd stowed the knife away somewhere, probably in a back pocket, and was standing with his bare arms crossed, enjoying himself. Tattoos on both arms, and one on his neck. Hearts and serpents and patterned bracelets.

‘Better than TV,' he said.

‘What I want to know is,' said the Stomach, ‘how he's going to pay for what he's done to my flat.'

A paramedic's car drew up behind the police.

‘What I think,' said Bea, ‘is that we should get Mr Waite to hospital as quickly as possible.'

‘Hold on,' said the policeman. ‘Is he or is he not responsible for the damage to this man's flat?'

‘Yes,' from the Stomach.

‘No,' from Bea.

‘Well, then. Who's responsible for his condition now? You, missus?'

‘Person or persons unknown,' said Piers. ‘Let's get Mr Waite the medical attention he needs, and then we'll answer any questions you may have.'

The voice of authority usually carries the day, but in this case the policeman was getting annoyed and so was disinclined to let them go. ‘Not so fast. I'm taking all your names and addresses. I'll want statements—'

‘Contact Detective Inspector Durrell,' said Bea, beckoning to the paramedics to attend to Jeremy. ‘Tell him there was another attempt to kidnap Mr Waite. He can take it from there. Here's my card, if you need to contact me, though the inspector knows where I live.' And to the paramedics, ‘A mace attack. We've been pouring water on his eyes.'

‘Right,' said the larger of the paramedics. ‘Give us some space, will you?'

Piers made to pick up the remains of the sack, but Jason took it off him, holding it by one corner. ‘I'll keep that safe for you, if you're going to the hospital with the little man.'

Bea said, ‘Thank you. You've been most helpful. Here, take one of my cards, too, in case you need to get in touch.'

The paramedics seemed to know what they were doing. One of them swabbed away at Jeremy's eyes, while the other brought a wheelchair down out of the ambulance.

The police car inched forward, reminding them to move out of the way. The driver leaned out of the window. ‘Are we done here? We've got another shout. Ruckus in the High Street.'

The policeman said, ‘In a minute.' He turned his attention to the Stomach.

‘Now, then; your name and address if you please.'

‘It's not me you should be charging . . .!'

Jeremy was strapped into the wheelchair and transferred to the ambulance. Bea and Piers climbed in after him. As the doors shut behind them, Bea spotted Jason disappearing into the coffee shop.

She looked at her watch. ‘Piers, have you your mobile on you? I think we ought to let Maggie and Oliver know what's happened.'

Jeremy was discharged soon after midnight. He'd stopped cursing by that time. His eyelids were still inflamed, but he could see, after a fashion, and the nurse in the Accident and Emergency department said his sight wasn't permanently damaged. What the attack had done to his confidence was another matter. The only thing he said in the taxi on the way home was, ‘I've got to make a will.'

‘Tomorrow,' said Bea, and she tucked him up in bed in the guest room. She checked that Oliver and Maggie were all right – they were having a quiet snack in the kitchen – and absent-mindedly gave Piers a kiss on his cheek when she saw him out of the front door. Then she set the alarm, took off her make-up and, without bothering to have a shower, fell into bed.

Sunday morning

They all slept late. Bea opened her curtains to see a morning haze lifting, hinting at a warm, bright day to come. She heard the bells of the church calling her to worship and wished she had no other calls on her time. It would be pleasant to set aside all her responsibilities, to walk out of the house and attend the service. She was sure she'd feel refreshed, and better able to cope, if she did.

But knew she couldn't.

And then wondered if it was fatigue or inertia that held her in the house.

Dear Lord . . . decisions, decisions! If I go to church, I shall worry about the problems here. Oh yes, I understand that I ought to be able to leave my problems behind when I go to church, in order to concentrate on You. Rightly or wrongly, I feel I ought to try to sort things out here first. Perhaps there'll be an opportunity for me to drop into the church later on today and have a quiet time with You?

She had a bowl of cereal, made a cafetière of coffee and took a cup into the living room, to stand by the open French windows, looking down on to the garden. And there was Jeremy, still dressed in his pyjamas, sitting on a garden chair, staring at nothing.

A rustle of cloth, and Maggie put an arm around Bea. Her hair was still green, but she was wearing bright red today. ‘I offered him breakfast. He refused.'

Bea nodded. The little man was taking it hard.

Oliver put his arm around Bea from the other side. ‘He's wearing Maggie's bunny slippers. Regressing to childhood?'

Bea sighed. ‘He's got a lot to think about.'

Oliver tightened his arm around her in a hug. ‘Mother Hen . . .'

Bea laughed, shook her head.

‘I like it,' said Maggie. ‘Mother Hen. You are definitely Mother Hen.'

‘Idiots!' Bea's tone was affectionate.

‘What can we do to help?'

‘Ah. Yes. Can you two find a lock and fit it to the door of your office downstairs? Three keys needed; one for you, one for me, and one for your part-time secretary.'

‘What? Who?'

Bea nodded. ‘I'm going to arrange for you to have a part-time secretary cum assistant, mornings only to start with, and Miss Brook is going to come in every Friday afternoon to keep your accounts straight. As from today it's going to be your office, and that of your part-time office staff.'

‘Whoopee!' Maggie threw both arms up in the air, and then sobered. ‘That's wonderful. But, can I afford to pay them? Panic, panic! I'm not sure—'

‘I am,' said Bea, smiling. ‘We're going to set you up in business for yourself. I will rent you office space and two part-time assistants and—'

‘I'll do you a website!' Oliver wasn't going to be left out. ‘I'll set up all the systems for your secretary and Miss Brook to handle. Can we afford a new computer?'

‘Maggie will buy one from the Abbot Agency,' said Bea. ‘Second-hand. I'll get Miss Brook to work out the details for us. For the moment you'll have to use your mobile phone for office work, but when you're properly sorted out with a new business name, you can get a landline installed in your name.'

‘What name?' Maggie started to dance around. ‘What do I call myself ?'

‘The Mother Hen Agency?' Oliver thought this was hilarious.

‘Stupid!' Maggie aimed a blow at him – and missed.

He pretended to be mortally wounded. ‘Aaargh! I'm dying. How about Maggie May Transformations?'

Maggie hit out again – and missed a second time. ‘That's for wigs, stupid!'

Bea separated them. ‘We'll think of the right name in time. When do you go back to uni, Oliver?'

He scowled. ‘Don't you dare try to send me back till this is over.'

‘But—'

‘This is more important. Do you think I'd leave you to face Ianthe alone – never mind trying to keep Jeremy from falling victim to general mayhem? All right, I know I shall have to go back for a few days. Later on. When this is finished, right?'

Bea was touched. In a husky voice, she said, ‘Thank you, Oliver.' Then she clapped her hands, returning to normal. ‘Well, my dears; you must set about getting a lock put on the office door while I sort out something for lunch and have a chat to Jeremy.'

No sooner were the youngsters out of the house than the doorbell rang. Bea let Detective Inspector Durrell in. He sighed at her. ‘Now what have you been up to?'

She shook her head. ‘You may well ask. Come through to the kitchen; I'm just checking what food we've got left for the weekend. Coffee?'

He slid on to a stool. ‘I got an incoherent message from some plod on the beat. The only bit that made sense was to ring you.'

‘Oh yes. That was about an attempted kidnapping, a murder and an illegal removal of a corpse.'

‘Is that all?' He stretched, sighed. ‘I should be at a family barbecue today. The wife is not amused.'

She set a mug of coffee before him.

‘On the other hand –' ladling sugar into his cup – ‘my brother-in-law has a habit of criticizing me about the way I bring up my children, my relationship with my in-laws, the type of car I drive, the insurance companies I patronize, and the clothes I wear. So I suppose I'm well out of it.'