False Picture (34 page)

Bea dithered. ‘Someone needs to stay with Mrs Weston.'

‘I'll be all right,' said Velma, closing her eyes and nestling further into the settee.

The DI said, ‘If we go round by the flats first, I can have a word with the concierge, see if he confirms any part of your story.'

Bea would have liked to splat him, but realized it would take too much of her waning energy to do so. ‘We can't leave Mrs Weston alone. Maggie, I'll just check that I've still got the keys to the flat. If I have, you can stay to look after Mrs Weston and I'll fetch your umbrella and raincoat while the DI is busy talking to Randolph downstairs.'

‘I'll keep on ringing Charlotte,' said Maggie, seeing them out. ‘She's probably stayed overnight somewhere and overslept.'

Bea checked her watch again. How long had they got before the sky fell on them?

Back at the flats, Bea left the DI talking to Randolph in the foyer, while she and the WPC went up in the lift. ‘I'll come with you,' said the WPC. ‘I might spot something you've missed.'

‘I doubt it,' said Bea, but didn't object when the WPC opened doors for her. As Bea fitted Maggie's key into the door of the flat, they heard a phone trilling inside.

The flat was silent. Open doors let on to empty rooms. The phone stopped.

‘The girls' room is at the end,' said Bea, telling herself there was nothing to fear in an empty flat.

The phone started again as they walked down the corridor. The door to the girls' room was ajar. The phone kept on ringing. Bea saw Charlotte's shoes first. One was on the floor at the foot of the bed. The black skirt and off-the-shoulder peasant blouse came next. The white blouse was stained with congealed blood. Ralph's knife had found its target perfectly this time. At her side lay her handbag, containing her mobile phone, still trilling. A bluebottle skittered around the room.

The WPC lunged past Bea to test for signs of life. There weren't any. ‘You recognize her?'

Bea nodded. ‘Charlotte. An irritating child, but she didn't deserve this.'

The WPC got out her own phone.

Bea was almost weeping with fatigue by the time she reached home again. The search for a body in Velma's garden had proved fruitless, but they could see where Ralph had broken branches on a small tree, scrambling over the wall, and a house-to-house call later turned up the kindly gentleman who had helped Rafael to get away. His bloodied knife was found under Velma's bed, and later DNA tied that blood not only to Bea but also to Zander, to Lady Farne and to Rafael's first victim, the fine arts dealer from whom he'd stolen the twelve miniatures.

Bea went to bed and tried to sleep. As did Velma.

How long did they have before a knife snaked its way into their hearts? A uniformed policeman had taken up a position in the hall, but how long would he be able to stand guard over them? One day? Two? And then what would happen …?

Late that afternoon, Bea was called down from where she'd been resting on her bed, to hear that she had a visitor. Oliver had returned from his mysterious errand and let him in, his credentials apparently satisfying the policeman on guard duty. Oliver didn't recognize the visitor, but Bea did.

As she entered the living room, he turned from the card table, a patience card in his hand. ‘Mrs Abbot. Red queen on black king. I hope you don't mind?' He placed the card in a new position.

She ordered her breathing to calm down. ‘Mr Van. I've been expecting you. Do take a seat.'

He did so, producing a business card. ‘The name and address of my firm in Amsterdam. I am, what you call, a recovery agent, working for insurance companies. A short time ago I was asked to look out for a thief, a man who had stolen twenty valuable boxes and twelve miniatures.'

Bea was indignant. ‘I thought you were a receiver of stolen goods, and now you say work for an insurance company? Or are you freelance? The way you treated us all … and in particular the way you treated the girls …!'

‘A misunderstanding. I believed that you and the two girls were all part of the gang. I ought to have told you the truth, and there would have been no need for hiding bottles of water in the Left Luggage.'

‘Charlotte's tongue wagged once too often. Ralph killed her last night.'

He frowned. ‘And the stolen goods?'

‘Were passed to a British insurance company yesterday. An art dealer acted as go-between, and he will share the reward with me. I'm afraid you've had a wasted journey.'

He scratched his jowl. ‘How many boxes did you find?'

‘Nineteen. I presume Ralph kept one for himself.'

‘Your police are looking for him now?'

‘Yes, but he's left his flat and no one seems to know where he's gone.' She shivered. ‘To tell you the truth, he terrifies me.' She rose to her feet, indicating the interview was over. ‘I hope you find him before he kills again.'

He stood, too. ‘What makes you think I can find him before the police do?'

‘You have his mobile phone number, and he has the twentieth box.'

He gave her a little bow. ‘My deepest respects to you, madame. Perhaps one day we will work together on a different case.'

‘I doubt it,' said Bea. ‘I like to be on the side of the angels, and I'm not sure where you stand on that issue, Mr Van.'

When he'd gone Bea took a look at her neglected game of patience. More than one card had been moved in her absence. She swept the cards away. She had no time for play while Ralph was still at large.

Wednesday evening

The minutes, and then the hours ticked by. There was no news from the police.

Piers dropped in to find out what had been happening, and Velma tottered down the stairs to demand a glass of champers for medicinal purposes. Piers behaved beautifully towards her, and she revived somewhat, attempting a return to her pretty, coaxing ways. It wasn't a very good attempt and before long she left the room, tears welling from her eyes.

Piers said, ‘Interesting what grief can do to a pretty woman. Sometimes it makes them paintable. I wouldn't mind having a stab at her now.' Bea remembered he'd once said he wanted to paint her, but had failed to follow up on his promise. But then, she'd never been a pretty woman, had she? The mirror over the fireplace reflected a hollow-eyed, tired face. Velma still looked adorable; Bea didn't.

Was she jealous? Perhaps, a little. Not that it was any good wasting emotion on jealousy where Piers was concerned.

Maggie insisted that they should all have a good, home-cooked meal that evening. She said it would do them good to eat at the dining-room table, with candles and napkins and wine glasses even for those who were drinking mineral water. They had to agree – as they seated themselves at table – that Maggie had the right idea.

‘After all,' said Velma, ‘we have much to celebrate. We are all alive and kicking, if feebly.'

Bea thought, Thank God. I ought to be on my bended knees, thanking Him for delivering us from evil, and instead I'm sitting down to celebrate with friends. I'm an ungrateful woman, only too quick to ask for help and tardy at giving thanks. And oh! I forgot to pray for the two kind taxi drivers who helped me out in Bruges. I told them I'd remember them in my prayers and I completely forgot! So, please remember them, dear Lord. And of course I know it's not over yet, so please, dear God, keep on watching over us.

‘Thank God,' said Piers, unexpectedly echoing her thought.

‘Yes, indeed,' said Velma. ‘Who'd have thought it? And as for you, young man,' looking at Oliver, ‘I keep forgetting your name, but I don't forget you, I promise.'

‘That's all right,' said Oliver, who had brought a sheaf of papers with him to the table. ‘It's been kind of fun, really.'

‘Put those papers away,' said Bea. ‘Tonight we must eat, drink and be merry. No work till tomorrow.'
Oh, dear … the tax return!

Oliver pulled a face, but did as he was told. Maggie's roast chicken, flavoured with garlic and herbs, was a dish to be savoured. Maggie removed the lids from various vegetable dishes, to reveal roast potatoes, her own special stuffing, tiny carrots, and calabrese. ‘Apple pie and cream to follow.'

‘I'll put on weight,' mourned Velma, ladling food on to her plate.

‘Who cares!' said Bea. ‘I'm sure I've lost weight this last week, so I'll merely be replacing what I've lost.'

They tried to be merry, and succeeded pretty well. Piers proposed a toast. ‘Here's to a quiet conscience, and peace to those no longer with us.'

Velma's hand trembled as she put down her glass. ‘I owe everyone an apology for what I said and did yesterday. I wasn't myself. Of course Sandy loved me, and I loved him. And of course Philip must have his things – if we can find him.'

‘Speaking of which,' said Oliver, producing his wodge of paper once more, ‘I think I know where he is.'

Velma fixed her large eyes on Oliver. ‘You are a clever boy, as well as a good one.'

Oliver wriggled. ‘Well, Mrs Abbot gave me Philip's phone which was quite dead. I charged it up and listened to the messages on it, but they weren't much help. There were a couple from a man who never gave his name – though I think it was Ralph – telling Philip to meet him at the usual place. Then a couple more, angry when Philip didn't turn up. I got a list of names from the phone's memory bank and started ringing around. It took a while because I didn't even know what areas some of the codes were for, so I took the phone and the list to a friend of mine whose father can make computers do whatever he wants.'

‘A hacker?' said Piers, eyebrows slanting.

Oliver coloured up. ‘What we did wasn't illegal. At least, I don't think so. We sorted out what codes were London, and those which were Scotland …'

‘Scotland!' Bea closed her eyes. ‘He went up to his mother's? I'd forgotten all about her.'

‘No, he's not there. We asked. He's working in a hairdresser's in South London, in Peckham, sweeping floors and taking towels to the launderette.'

Sensation!

Velma said, ‘My jaw has dropped so far I'm almost speechless. What's he doing there? Oh. A girl?'

Oliver nodded. ‘There were several girls' names listed. All except one said that they hadn't seen him for weeks and didn't care if they never saw him again. But there were three numbers listed for one particular girl; Rachel. A mobile, which was permanently switched off. A landline for a solicitor's office in Peckham. I asked for Rachel there, but they don't let their employees take personal calls at work.

‘I got through to the third number eventually. It's a pay phone in a house share. A man with a strong accent, probably Jamaican, answered the phone. He said four people share the house and he thinks there's someone dossing down in Rachel's room. Name of Johnno.'

‘Johnno?' repeated Velma, in tones of disbelief.

‘I know,' said Oliver. ‘The name “Johnno” didn't sound like Philip to me, so I asked if he were a big strong black bloke, and my informant neighed with laughter and said he was a little white scrap of a lad. Which sounded hopeful. My informant also said that if I wanted Johnno urgently, he'd be working in the High Street at Divine's.'

Bea half closed her eyes. ‘Divine's. Of course.'

‘So I got on the internet and discovered that Divine's is a specialist hairdressers …'

‘Number two-oh-eight,' said Bea, remembering the message left on the answerphone at the Westons' house.

‘You knew?' Oliver was annoyed.

‘Not really, no. Tell me more.'

‘Well, I rang them and spoke to the manageress. She said one of her stylists had asked her for a job for this young lad and he was getting on quite well considering he was a cack-handed white boy. I understand that Divine's has a predominantly black clientele. This particular stylist is called Chrissie. She couldn't come to the phone then because she was busy, but she agreed to ring me back after hours, which she did. Chrissie lives in the same house as Rachel. Rachel had asked Chrissie to find a job for this young layabout, and she'd obliged. Chrissie's a strong Christian. She believes in giving a helping hand to people when they need it.'

‘A hairdresser's?' Velma muttered, now smiling and now frowning. She began to laugh, but stopped herself. ‘Earning his crust for the first time in his life? In some ways, I wish we could leave him in peace, but he doesn't know his father's dead. He doesn't know about Zander, or Charlotte. He has to be told. Afterwards … what am I to do with him? He's not due anything under his father's will, but I suppose I could give him something. His father's car, for a start. I can't think he'll want to make a career in hairdressing.'

Bea wasn't so sure about that. ‘He's probably better off there, than losing money at the tables.'

Piers said, ‘If Lady Farne willed him the Millais he could sell it, clear his debts and buy himself an annuity. If he's got any sense at all – which I rather doubt – he will beg Rachel and Chrissie to go on looking after him.'

Velma drained her glass. ‘Give me the phone number where he's living. I'd better talk to him before he realizes someone's rumbled his hideout, and he runs off again. I'm not letting him back into my house though. He's got to stand on his own two feet sometime.' She got to her feet, holding on to the table, and then let go of it, straightening her back. ‘There's the funeral arrangements to make, people to advise, solicitors … oh fiddle! And an empty flat down the road to re-let. Maggie, do you fancy taking on a new lease for it?'

‘Me? No!' Maggie toned down her refusal. ‘I mean, crime scene and all that. Besides, Mrs Abbot really needs someone here to look after her.'

‘I do indeed,' said Bea. ‘Thank you, Maggie.'

Velma arched her back, testing out her muscles. ‘Maybe I should have the builders in, have it gutted, replumbed with a shower room to each bedroom. Then bring in the decorators, replace the furniture and put it back in the hands of the estate agents, who can let it for double the present rent. I'm not sure I can face the work involved.'