False Picture (29 page)

‘Stupid, stupid!' Velma struck at her breasts, her eyes wide, unfocused. ‘He loved me not. And now I've got to start all over again.' She got to her feet. ‘Did I come in the car? Where's my handbag? Has someone got my car keys? I must go home and see to things. I don't know exactly what it is I have to see to, but there must be something.'

‘I'll drive you,' said Piers.

She flinched. ‘Do you think I'm not capable? I know that I'm not quite myself at the moment, but I am perfectly capable of driving myself home.'

Oliver said, ‘I'm learning to drive. Can I sit in the car with you, watch how you do it?'

Velma smiled at him, and the smile almost came naturally. ‘What a nice boy you are. Of course you may. Oh, and Bea,' she turned back to her old friend, ‘that's it, for Philip. He can go to the devil now, for all I care. Tell the police he's missing and has taken a Millais with him. Let them sort it out. I'm not spending another penny on him.'

She made a three-point turn, eyeing up the door, focusing on it. She took a deep breath and walked in a dead straight line through it and out into the hall. Oliver scuttled ahead of her, opening and shutting the front door for her.

Bea let herself down on to the settee which Velma had just vacated. She, also, stared into space. Sandy dead! So everything they'd done to find Philip had been in vain. They could have gone straight to the police the moment the girls had been involved! They could have given Mr Van away to the cops in Belgium.

Poor Velma. Heart-stricken.

All was dust and ashes.

Bea was sure that Sandy had loved Velma more than he'd loved Philip, but maybe he'd worried about his son more than he'd worried about Velma. Because, let's face it, Velma was a pretty strong personality when you looked under the fluffy blonde exterior. Velma had been knocked off balance by guilt at having left her husband's side for an hour, and by grief, but she would survive.

Philip might not.

Bea didn't give a toss about Philip. Selfish, weak, needy … he hadn't only wrecked his own life, but his father's and Velma's as well.

Someone was shouting. Bea blinked, and brought herself back to the task on hand. Maggie was trying to soothe Charlotte, who was crying. Of course, she would cry. Piers was standing with his back to the room, looking out on to the garden. The sky beyond Piers' figure was a dull blue, the leaves of the big sycamore tree losing their colour as the sun dropped lower and lower in the sky.

Charlotte sobbed, ‘I don't understand anything! Who was that woman, and why is she going on about Philip?'

Maggie controlled her irritation pretty well. ‘That was Mrs Weston, who is your landlady, by the way. If you speak nicely to her – no, not at this minute! Can't you tell she's upset? – she might be understanding about the rent. Philip was her stepson. She asked us to find him because … oh, why do I bother! Mrs Abbot, would you like me to rustle up something to eat? It seems ages since breakfast.'

Bea started, trying to deal with thoughts which were rushing round her head screaming
Urgent!
And
Action!
‘Yes, Maggie. That would be good. Or get takeaways for once.'

Charlotte revived at the thought of food. ‘I wouldn't mind a Chinese, but not sweet and sour pork.'

Maggie said, ‘Come and help me choose,' and deftly removed Charlotte from the room.

Piers was fiddling with his shirt cuff, an annoying habit he'd had as long as she'd known him. ‘Bea, if I've followed this correctly, as of tomorrow morning you're going to be number one target for Mastermind and his cohorts?'

Bea was already punching numbers on her mobile. ‘You're telling me. Mr Goldstone, can you talk? I'm a little concerned about what's going to happen tomorrow when … oh, I see.' She held up her hand to stop Piers interrupting as she listened to what the art gallery had to say. Which was quite a lot. Eventually she nodded. ‘Right. I follow your thinking. Have you a name for your contact in the Fraud Squad or whatever it calls itself? The Art and …? No, I haven't got that right, have I? What's his name again?' She seized the phone pad and made some notes. ‘Well, thank you. Have you heard anything more about the Millais, or the frame? No? Oh well. It was a long shot, I suppose … yes, I will keep in touch. Promise.'

She switched her phone off. ‘Piers, my friend Mr Goldstone has already given the boxes and the miniatures to someone in the insurance company, someone who welcomes the return of stolen goods without asking any questions. As far as he's concerned, he's done his bit and all he has to do now is wait for the reward to plop through his letterbox. He's not contacted the police about the thefts because he thought I'd do it, and he wasn't sure how much to say since he knows I wanted to keep quiet about Philip, which of course I did. Then. He's not worried about Mastermind, because Mastermind doesn't know he exists.'

‘Mastermind knows far too much about all of you, to my way of thinking. First he'll try Charlotte; at least, that's what I'd do. Can we trust her to keep her mouth shut?' Piers answered his own question. ‘No, we can't. We might persuade her not to answer any calls to her mobile, but some time or other she's going to have to go back to work and to the flat. If asked, she'll tell the world what she knows, and I can't see any way to stop her.

‘However, a moment's thought will make it clear to Mastermind that it's you and not Charlotte who knows where the goods are. You used your own name in your dealings with him, yes? Well, even if Charlotte doesn't give him chapter and verse, there aren't that many Abbots in the phone book. So, within days – or more likely hours – he's going to know how to get hold of you. Yes, it's definitely time to call in the police.'

‘It's late. I hope someone's still there who can deal with it.' She punched numbers and asked for the man whose name Mr Goldstone had given her. She was passed on to someone else, began to explain … only to be passed on to a third person. She had barely got her name and address recorded the third time when she put the phone down with a grimace.

‘They took a message but want me to ring back tomorrow morning. Office hours. I suppose I'd better alert the local nick and ask for protection.' She looked doubtful. Piers did, too. She braced herself, reaching for the phone directory as her landline rang.

Piers muttered, ‘I'll get that.' He picked up the receiver, listened … and said he'd ring back in a minute.

Bea, punching numbers, raised her eyebrows to ask who it was who'd called.

‘Oliver. Worried about Velma, who's coming unbuttoned. I said you'd ring him as soon as you could.'

Bea hesitated, but decided to contact the police first. The following quarter-hour was one of the most frustrating of her life. She gave her name and address twice to different people, said she had some information about a robbery which had led to the murder of Lady Farne, repeated her name and address to a third person, was asked to hold – which she did. Then asked if she wished to leave a message.

By the time she got round to doing so, Piers was answering the phone again, frowning, fiddling with a pen he'd picked up. She tried to hear what he was saying, at the same time as she talked to the police.

She spoke slowly into the phone. ‘Yes, that's right. We realized that there was a link between Lady Farne's murder and her godson who lived locally. Then …' She was interrupted by someone at the other end. She listened, biting the remains of lipstick off her mouth, not liking what she heard. ‘No, I quite understand. It is rather complicated. The problem is that I think the man who masterminded the theft and presumably committed the murder is going to find out some time tomorrow morning that he's been fooled, and as he's killed at least once already … yes, yes. Of course I really need to talk to whoever is dealing with Lady Farne's death. You say he'll be in tomorrow morning and will contact me then? Yes, I'll be here.'

She put the phone down with a gesture of defeat. ‘How much do I tell them? Do we leave Zander's name out of it? Is it really Zander in hospital? If we blow his cover, won't that put him into danger again? I mean, he must be safe while he's in hospital and Mastermind thinks he's dead. What do we say about Philip and Liam? They've disappeared into the undergrowth like rabbits diving into their burrows. Possibly different burrows, but possibly the same one. Has Philip fled to Ireland, I ask myself? And what's going on with you, Piers?'

Piers cupped the receiver of the landline in both hands. ‘Oliver again. You'd better speak to him.'

‘Mrs Abbot, is that you?' Oliver, trying to control excitement. ‘I don't know what to do. She's throwing all her husband's things out of the window into the garden at the back and as fast as I can pick them up, she's throwing more …' A crash at the other end. ‘That was a television set, would you believe?'

Bea groaned. What more trouble could this day hold? ‘You want me to come round?'

‘Yes, but … the thing is, she wants to give me his car, and it's a Peugeot that she gave him for his last birthday, and I keep saying I can't take it, and she says that she wants to give it to me because I'm a nice boy, nicer than Philip, and if I won't accept it, she says she'll take it down to the Embankment and drive it into the Thames! I don't know that that's possible – to drive it into the river, I mean – but I do believe she'll crash it or something. What do I do?'

Bea tried to think. Had Velma the right to dispose of her husband's belongings? Perhaps Sandy had made a will, and if so, then maybe everything – or a lot of things – might now belong to Philip. If he could be found. ‘Oliver, can't you reason with her? No, silly of me. Of course you can't reason with a woman whose temporarily off her rocker. If it were just Philip's things she wants to destroy …?'

‘At the moment it's her husband's stuff. Clothes, shoes, DVDs, you name it, and it's raining down into the garden. I've had to take refuge in the kitchen doorway.'

Bea tried to think clearly. ‘Suppose you retrieve as much as you can, and stow it in the Peugeot. Then we can remove the car with its contents and garage it somewhere till she's calmed down. Yes, that would be best. But you mustn't try to drive it.' She held on to the phone but looked up at Piers. ‘Piers, did you get the gist of that? Do you think you could rescue the car for us? Oliver's not passed his test yet and we don't want him getting picked up for driving and taking away – or worse.'

Piers nodded. ‘I'll get round there straight away.' He disappeared.

Maggie arrived in the doorway. ‘Ta-da! Supper is served!'

Bea held up her hand to silence Maggie while she returned to the mobile.

‘Oliver, Piers is on his way. He'll take the car and put it somewhere safe. Don't try to stop Velma throwing things out because she'll only turn on you. Make her a cup of sugary tea, see if you can get her to drink it and to eat some biscuits. Carbohydrates help with the shock. She'll wear herself out soon. I'll come down to help you when I've got things sorted at this end, right?' She put the phone down with a tired sigh.

Maggie went into her mother-hen mode. ‘Oh, you poor thing. You must be worn out. You must eat something or you'll be no good to man or beast.'

‘True,' said Bea, trying to smile. ‘Eat first, and then I'll go and see what I can do to help Velma. You can look after Charlotte, can't you?'

Charlotte came into the room, munching a huge slice of pizza. Pizza? thought Bea. Weren't we having a Chinese?

Charlotte pounced on the duvet which had covered Bea while she napped. ‘At last! Honestly! How could you!'

Bea had had enough. ‘Charlotte, has it never occurred to you that you'd get on better in this world if you thanked people for helping you, instead of criticizing them every time you open your mouth?'

Charlotte bridled, stuffing another mouthful of pizza in. She spluttered through it, causing flakes of pizza to fall on to the ivory carpet together with a string of melted cheese. ‘You have to take me as you find me.' She cleared her mouth partially and continued, ‘I'm no hypocrite, pretending to be charitable to a poor girl who hasn't got anyone to stand up for her, and then making her life a misery!'

‘You are a very rude and ungrateful little girl,' said Bea, who'd had more than enough of Charlotte. ‘And while you're a guest under my roof, you abide by my rules. You will say please and thank you when appropriate, and you will refrain from borrowing my clothes. Is that clear?'

Charlotte opened her mouth and wailed. Tears spurted.

‘Now look what you've done,' said Maggie, but she was half laughing as she steered Charlotte out of the room. ‘Come along, Charlotte. Mrs Abbot's quite right, you know. You really should mind your Ps and Qs more. What I think is that we're all so tired now, we're not exactly at our best, right?' Her voice faded away as she led Charlotte into the kitchen.

Bea began to laugh and caught herself crying.

This would never do. Oliver needed her, and so did Velma. Poor Velma! Bea found a tissue, mopped up, blew her nose, and told herself she'd be much better for getting some food inside her. She followed the girls out to the kitchen.

Later Tuesday evening

Rafael stood in Charlotte's room at the flat and felt his headache intensify.

There was evidence that the girls had returned from Bruges and repacked to leave in a hurry, leaving clothes half in and half out of the wardrobe, on the bed and spilling from a chest of drawers. Or was this how they'd left it when they went off yesterday?

Rafael hated it when things didn't go according to plan.

Calm down, he told himself. The girls left the hotel in Bruges this morning. Perhaps the car has broken down, or they've had an accident on the way.