False Charity (7 page)

She wasn't much of a churchgoer, though Hamilton had gone once a month and sometimes more often. Hamilton had been a Christian, not just on Sundays, but every day of the week as well.

As clearly as if he'd been at her elbow, she heard his voice.
Are we here just to make money, or to help people who can't help themselves?

I can't! I'm too tired, too old. I've been out of it too long.

You can do it, girl!

Could she? Dare she? Suppose she tried to think like Hamilton; what would he have done in this case?

She sighed. She knew exactly what he'd have said. Help them, of course. She couldn't do it on her own; she'd been out of the business too long. What's more, she seemed to remember their computers had been updated some while back. Would she even know how to turn one on nowadays? So, she needed Oliver to help her.

If Oliver stayed for a while, presumably Maggie would have to stay, too. Bea quailed at the thought. The girl was bossy, loud and had a laugh that could drill through steel. Bea shuddered. Could she face living with that laugh? Even if it were only for a week? She sighed. She supposed she must. Indeed, she had very little choice if she wanted to go on living with a quiet mind.

She returned to her desk. ‘I'd like to do something for Coral if I can. I understand you two are on notice to leave at the end of this week. Suppose I extend that deadline until the end of next week, which will give you more time to find somewhere else to go. If Oliver does any work for me, he gets paid for it, understood? I'd like to see what can be done to track down the con men who pretended to be a registered charity and took Coral for a ride. How does that strike you?'

Oliver and Maggie consulted one another without words. Oliver nodded.

Maggie said, ‘What would we have to do?'

Bea shuffled papers, trying desperately to think what Hamilton would have said, if he'd still been here. He'd say,
First you check. Then you think. Only after that, you act.
So what would you check first? She handed some paperwork from the charity to Oliver.

‘These people called themselves the International Relief Foundation, and the appeal fund was for helping the victims of the last tsunami. Find out everything you can about them.'

Oliver looked as if he wanted to drop the papers. ‘How do we do that?'

Bea suppressed impatience. ‘There's a charity number given at the bottom of the letterhead. Is it genuine? Check on the board members. Ring them up. See if you can find someone who'll talk to you about the charity they represent. Find out who is responsible for the day-to-day running. Is it one of the board members, or the secretary, or who? We need to find out how much of the information on the letterhead is genuine. If any.'

Oliver nodded. He still looked terrified, but maybe he'd do it. ‘Off you go, then,' said Bea, and he scampered off, all eager beaver.

‘Now, Maggie. At the bottom of this letter there's a signature which looks like Graham or Gordon Briggs, secretary. Coral says she spoke to an American woman, though. Can you find out who she is?'

Maggie pouted. ‘How do I do that?'

Bea wanted to grind her teeth, but told herself it would be too hard on her fillings. ‘Well, for a start, it wouldn't be any good ringing the same people as Oliver. Coral told us about two places which have held events for these people. I want you to ring them and speak to whoever handles the bookings. Find out what they know about these people; for instance, who did they deal with at the charity? Can they give you a name? Does the charity have another address or telephone number, so that we can contact them? If you can, also find out if they've been paid for the functions the charity held there.'

At that moment her phone rang. She picked it up, saying smoothly, ‘Abbot Agency, how may I help you?'

A man's voice, full of charm. With a laugh in it. ‘At long last! I was beginning to think you'd given us up for good and were staying in the Southern Hemisphere.'

Piers, her first husband. ‘What do you want, Piers?'

‘There's a fine welcome. Can't I just want to see you for old times' sake?'

‘I doubt it.'

‘I'll drop round later, all right?' He put the phone down before she could tell him not to. Maggie was trying to look as if she were not dying of curiosity.

Bea said, ‘My ex-husband. From the time before I married Hamilton.'

Maggie was trying to work it out. ‘Max's father?'

‘Yes. Not that he's been much of a father to … well, never mind. We've got work to do.'

She watched Maggie leave, guessing she'd probably go straight to Oliver with the news that Mrs Abbot's first husband had surfaced the day she got back from burying Hamilton. What next? Bea tried to open a drawer to find Hamilton's address and telephone book because there were one or two people she knew who might have come across the fake charity. She broke a fingernail. Bother. Now she had to find a nail file.

And ‘bother' Piers, too. They'd married young; and it had been a disaster. After suffering four years of his tomcatting around, she'd thrown him out. He'd taken it as lightly as he took everything except his work, moving in with first one of his women and then another. Never staying long with anyone. Being a freelance portrait painter and wickedly attractive with it, he'd been able to do that.

For five long years he'd avoided her, during which time she'd worked all hours at all sorts of jobs to keep herself and Max. Maintenance cheques had arrived now and then. Never enough and never often enough, but she supposed Piers had been doing his best. The divorce went through unopposed.

Then one day he'd turned up on the doorstep asking for a bed for the night as if he'd never been away. Not that she'd let him in. Oh, no. Though it had taken all her willpower to resist his charm. Sometimes she wondered what would have happened if she had let him in … but no. Tomcats don't change their spots. Whatever.

Max had been nine when Piers returned. It was too late for him to play at fatherhood. Bea had been on the point of marrying Hamilton, and her son adored the large, laughing man who was always there for them.

After Hamilton adopted Max, the boy had declared he didn't want to see Piers any more. That should have been that, but for some reason – guilt, perhaps? – Piers had kept in touch with Bea. Every so often he'd give her a ring and ask her out for a meal; sometimes he'd ask after his son, though he didn't seem really interested in what she had to say. His career had taken off, the agency had thrived, they met without embarrassment.

She hadn't seen him for nearly a year. Tea at Fortnum and Mason's. They'd just been told that Hamilton's cancer had returned, and he'd refused further treatment in favour of going around the world, seeing everything he'd always wanted to see, doing everything he'd not had time for. Piers had been a good friend that day, said the right things, said she could always rely on him … though he hadn't said for what, the bastard.

Bea had to go and borrow a nail file from Maggie in the end. Then she got side-tracked as the front doorbell rang upstairs, and didn't stop. Bea guessed it was Piers. Bother!

‘Shall I …?' asked Maggie, waving her arms in semaphore fashion.

‘I'll go,' said Bea. Anything to stop him leaning on the bell. She opened the door. An orchid in a pot and a bottle of wine were thrust in her face. ‘Welcome home,' said Piers, stepping inside the hall. ‘By the way, have you got a bed for the night? I seem to be temporarily homeless.'

Wednesday, midday

The team was listening to the news on the television.

‘… taking his dog for a walk on the Heath stumbled across the body of a man early this morning. If anyone has any information, they should contact …'

Lena used the remote to turn the television off. ‘Home and dry. No identification. No problem. The keys went down a drain, the jewellery I wiped clean and dropped into a charity shop. We've been lucky. But Noel, don't you ever …!'

The lad pouted, and she bit back the rest of what she'd been about to say. She turned to Richie, who was folding menus with neat movements. ‘What's the latest on the DJ? Can we get him again?'

‘Cash up front. I've not been able to beat him down at all. Do we play?'

She tucked a strand of blonded hair behind one ear. ‘Sometimes we have to spend, in order to rake it in. And the cabaret?'

‘I've found a lad who's been on one of those talent shows on TV but never made it any further. He wants cash on the night.'

Lena nodded. ‘Give him half in cash on the night, and a cheque for the rest.'

Noel yawned, grabbing the remote to turn the TV back on. Neither Lena nor Richie remonstrated, though Richie looked as if he'd like to do so.

Noel said, ‘Is the Appealing Orphan coming out to play again?'

‘She's upped her price,' said Lena. ‘A minicab to pick her up and a fifty-pound note. I've told her not to embroider her story. Last time she said she'd lost five brothers and sisters, and six uncles and aunts. Two of each would be better.'

Richie nodded. ‘One child lost, is a tragedy. Two thousand dead is news.'

‘I think I'd better tell everyone about the tsunami, and let her add her voice at the end. That way, she can't exaggerate. She's so photogenic, we must use her.' Lena raised her voice. ‘Do you hear me, Noel? You make sure Ana gets round to all the tables on Saturday night.'

Noel grunted, and switched channels.

Lena booted up her laptop. ‘There's a thousand and one things still to do.'

Richie folded the last menu and pushed the pile aside. ‘I'll go and collect the cosmetic samples we've been promised for giveaways, but it's going to take me a while because the warehouse is out in the sticks. Someone ought to check at the shop, see if there's any more requests for tickets. I suppose I could do that on my way back.'

Lena was frowning. ‘I promised I'd drop a replacement cheque into the hotel. We have to let them have some money today or they'll cancel. I've still got to check on the caterers, get the balloons up, fetch my dress from the cleaners.'

‘I'll collect the mail from the shop,' said Noel, losing interest in the television programme. ‘Then on the way back I could drop the cheque in at the hotel, chat up the little receptionist, find out if our friend's been missed yet.'

Lena was uneasy. ‘I'm not happy with your going anywhere near that girl. It was bad enough your taking her out for the evening, but to give her your phone number was asking for it.'

‘It was only my mobile number, and she didn't know why the barman wanted it.'

Lena tried to convince herself he was right. ‘I suppose she'd have tried to blackmail us, too, if she'd caught on.'

Noel shrugged and looked up at the ceiling. Richie glowered at Noel, but knew better than to say anything.

One of Lena's phones rang, she checked the label on it and answered. ‘International Relief and Development Fund … oh, how are you? It was a good night, wasn't it! … What's that? Our cheque bounced? No! It's not possible. There must be some mistake. Give me the details and I'll get on to the bank straight away to sort it out.'

Wednesday, lunchtime

P
iers pulled a suitcase on wheels into the hall, closed the front door with his foot, and enveloped Bea in a hug.

She struggled free. ‘How dare you!'

She would have hit him, only her hands were full. He laughed, slapped her behind and walked into the drawing room. She followed him, telling herself that the poet was right to warn people about guests bringing gifts, because you never knew what they were really after. The bottle of wine looked a good one. He'd spent money on that, and on the orchid, too.

Piers' gaze fell on Maggie. He gave her a slow inspection from her pink topknot to the awkward-looking feet, and identified her place in the household. ‘Hello. I'm Piers. Could you come up with some coffee, do you think?'

Maggie simpered and scampered off, saying she'd see what she could do.

Like Max, Piers was tall and strongly built. Unlike Max, Piers hadn't an ounce of fat on him. He had a mop of dark hair becomingly streaked with grey. His skin was bronzed, his eyes hazel, and his chin looked as if someone had pushed it over to one side. He wore a checked wool shirt over well-cut jeans and the clothes looked right on him, despite the fact that he was now in his early sixties. Time had been kind to him in many ways, perhaps because he'd never burdened himself with family responsibilities.

‘Piers,' said Bea, dumping the orchid on the mantelpiece out of the sun. ‘Out!'

‘Now, now. Don't be so hasty. So this is your home.' He looked all round. ‘Nice place. Suits you. Are you going to keep it?'

‘Yes,' said Bea. ‘Piers, I can't give you a bed, so—'

‘I got back from Scotland this morning. My tenant's not due to move out till Monday, so I thought I'd look you up.'

Maggie banged her way back into the room carrying a tray with a cafetière of fresh coffee and two mugs on it. She brought it to Piers as a puppy brings a toy to its master.

Piers thanked her with a smile, helped himself, and sank into a chair. ‘Seriously, Bea, if there's anything I can do you've only to say.'

‘Thank you, Piers,' said Bea, who didn't for a moment believe he meant it. ‘Everything's under control.'

‘Except for some old friend of hers who's in trouble,' said Maggie, interfering as usual. ‘Max said she wasn't to worry about it, as it really is a lost cause.'

‘Maggie,' warned Bea. ‘Zip it!' And as Maggie opened her mouth to argue, Bea decided she'd had enough. ‘Haven't you some work to do downstairs? Manning the phones, if you can't cope with the computer? And if you can't do that, can you find out if my old cleaner will come back to work for me?'