False Diamond--An Abbot Agency Mystery (26 page)

When she saw the client was sitting upright and knew where she was, Bea said, ‘Apologies for keeping you waiting. May I offer you another cup of tea?'

‘No, no, my dear. I'm sure it is I who ought to be apologizing to you.'

‘Anything I can do …?'

‘I know you can be discreet?'

Bea nodded, thinking that she ought perhaps to add ‘moral' or ‘ethical' to the agency's slogan on their letterheads and in their advertisements.

‘A favour. We did not come to you for assistance when my last dear helper left, because my husband found someone through an advertisement in the
Telegraph
. He was very taken with the girl who, it must be acknowledged, is a comely creature.'

There was a slight pause while both women reflected that elderly gentlemen might occasionally be less than avuncular to pretty young things who came to work for them.

Bea nodded. She could read the future as well as her client. If the elderly husband fell too hard for the newcomer, there might be a distressing breakdown in a long and happy marriage, perhaps even a divorce and remarriage. Would that make the man happy? Sigh. Probably, for a fortnight or so. And then, not.

‘She provided references, of course?'

‘Written references,' said the lady, ‘which he did not follow up with telephone enquires. He has been so accustomed to your vetting applicants for us that he failed to realize that not all written references are genuine.'

‘You think they were faked?'

The lady was not prepared to go that far. She fiddled with her rings – very good rings, diamonds and sapphires. ‘One never knows if they're telling the truth or not when they give their reasons for leaving their previous employment. It's not that she's been a disappointment in her work, though she's not a patch on the girl before her, and she's becoming increasingly apt to disregard anything I say. Almost rude, in fact. But I could deal with that if I didn't feel that by doing so, I might be shooting myself in the foot.'

Bea understood that the elderly husband was beginning to take the part of the PA against his wife. Oh.

The client produced some letters from her handbag and handed them over. ‘She says she's worked for these people in Yorkshire and a couple in Kensington who all laud her to the skies. I don't know either of them or I would have had a quiet chat … and now, I'm so afraid that …'

‘Say no more,' said Bea. She glanced at the clock. ‘I have ten minutes before my next appointment. Could you bear to wait while I see if I can contact one of these people?'

‘Thank you, my dear. I'd be grateful. The girl's got such a silly name. Baptized Christine, but now calls herself Christobel. As if!'

Bea froze. Christine to Christobel.

What name had Ginevra been born with?

She turned back to her computer. Yes, the people in Kensington were also clients of hers, silver service for an anniversary dinner party once a year and for a drinks party in their garden every Midsummer's day. Four children under the ages of fifteen. Why had this client needed a personal assistant? Well, there was only one way to find out. Bea dialled their number and was fortunate enough to find the client there.

Bea introduced herself and apologized for bothering the client, but … ‘I've a client who was approached by a certain Christobel—'

A shriek from the other end of the phone. ‘That tart! Don't give her the time of day, Mrs Abbot. She came to us as an au pair when I was having a problem with the twins, but she was nothing but trouble from the word go. She could hardly tear herself away from Facebook to fetch the kids from school, and then I had my husband drooling all over her because she's a pretty little thing if you like the sort who spends more time flirting with visitors than emptying the dishwasher. The last straw came when I found her trying to get into bed with my fifteen-year-old son. I shot her out of the door before you could say knife, and believe me, if I'd had a knife in my hand at the time, there would have been blood on the carpet.'

‘So you didn't give her a good written reference?'

‘I said if she went for another job and the employer rang me, I'd be happy to tell what I knew of the girl.'

‘Would you be kind enough to speak to someone who had been given your name as a reference for Christobel?'

‘Would I!'

Bea passed the phone over and accessed Facebook with reference to dear little Christobel … and there she was, the minx. Cavorting – if that was the right word – with various young men in compromising fashion. X-rated, definitely.

‘Thank you so much. Most kind.' The elderly client replaced the phone with a hand that shook.

Bea turned her computer screen round so that Christobel's activities could be shared with her client. ‘Facebook. With a number of young men.'

The client blew her nose. ‘What a silly billy my old man has been. When I show him this … I wonder if he knows how to access Facebook?' Even her voice quavered.

‘Perhaps,' said Bea, in a dulcet tone, ‘you could ask Christobel to show you how?'

An amused smile. ‘That might indeed be sufficient to show her the game was up, yes. But I fear he will have to see the evidence for himself.' She straightened her back. ‘Well, these things are sent to try us. I'm grateful, Mrs Abbot. I won't insult you by asking if you'll keep this to yourself, because I know that you will. So, as my assistant is about to leave, perhaps you can find me someone else?'

‘Delighted. Fair, fat and forty?'

The client had enough spirit left to laugh.

Carrie knocked and put her head round the door. ‘Your half-past three appointment, Mrs Abbot.'

Bea helped Her Ladyship into her coat and saw that she had collected all her belongings before accompanying her to the front door. ‘Would you like us to get you a taxi?'

‘Yes, dear. Thank you. I hate driving in London nowadays.'

Carrie said, ‘I'll arrange it, My Lady. If you'd like to take a seat here for a moment …?'

Bea turned her mind to her next appointment with some difficulty. Business before pleasure.

This time the client had a different problem for Bea to solve. A daughter's wedding had had to be brought forward as her fiancé was due for another tour of duty in Afghanistan. Could Bea rearrange everything at such short notice …? Of course. With sympathy.

As soon as the second client had gone, Bea re-entered Facebook and typed in the words ‘Ginevra Benton'.

G
otcha!

Ginevra Benton, cavorting. A good word, cavorting. ‘See me dance, see me play. This is where I live. See how big my bed is. This is me on holiday, holiday, holiday … This is me with Ricky. Aren't I cute?'

Bea had assumed that Ginevra's partner was a woman, but he wasn't. Ricky was a big butch of a man with muscles out to here though possibly not as many brains as muscles. Ricky had a motorbike. See me perched on the pillion of Ricky's motorbike.

Yes!

Ricky must be the man who'd menaced Bea on his motorbike. So if Ricky had been the biker, then who had been the passenger on Saturday night? Ginevra?

Bea closed her eyes, the better to recall the image of the men who'd terrorized her.

No. Not Ginevra. Not a woman.

Are we back to thinking it was Benton? Yes. Possibly.

A shame one couldn't ask him now.

Return to Facebook. Ginevra in different outfits, referencing her boutique, which was also – surprise! – called Ginevra. Her poses were seductive, showing off not so much the clothes, as the body within them.

Ginevra had been on Facebook for some time. Bea scrolled back and back.

And stopped. The trail ended – or rather began – when Ginevra opened her boutique in Wandsworth, full address given. On Twitter, etc.

Bea googled Ginevra's Boutique and came up lucky.

Pictures of the shop's fascia, and of Ginevra. None of Ricky.

More pictures of Ginevra wearing different outfits. This time the clothes were more important than the body within them. So why wasn't the partner shown?

Perhaps Ricky had taken the pictures? They did look a cut above the average family photos.

Ricky … who? What was his other name? Did he live with Ginevra? Why wasn't his full name on Ginevra's Boutique page?

Mm. Try a different way in. Bea accessed the website which gave details of registered companies. She found the boutique, but no details. So it was not a registered company, and there were no shareholders or directors. Just a loose partnership?

How could you find out? Bea stared the screen, wishing Oliver were still around because he was better at sorting these things out than she was … although she hadn't done too badly, come to think of it.

She got up to pace the floor. Look at it from a different angle. Perhaps Ricky had another career somewhere and just helped out in the boutique when required? Or did his biker stunt when required?

Carrie tapped on the door. ‘Your next appointment?'

Bea wrenched her mind away from the chase and turned a professional smile to her next visitor, telling herself to deal with life one step at a time.

A complaint this time. Justified? Mm. Faults on both sides. Apply oil in large quantities, promise to investigate. And if it could be proved that the chef had been tipsy that night, then Bea promised he would never be used by her agency again. If. By the end of the interview, Bea was pretty sure the client was complaining solely to get a reduction in the bill. To be dealt with on the morrow.

Back to Ginevra. Something her august visitor had said earlier struck a chord.

If Christine had turned herself into Cristobel, and Ginevra had previously had another name, then what might that have been? Bea could well understand that the girl would have wanted to give herself an extravagant name if she were to open a boutique. People often kept the same initial or a similar-sounding name when they wanted an alias. How about ‘Jean'?

Bea typed in ‘Jean Benton', and lo and behold, up came the details for a person of this name.

At least … No, it couldn't be. Yes, this Jean had been born in 1983, which would make her thirty years old. Jean was about the right age, but the rest was nonsense. This could not be the right person. Bea told herself that she wasn't as good at this lark as Oliver and that she'd made a poor guess when she'd gone for the name ‘Jean'.

Carrie tapped on the door. ‘Your son is here and—'

Max thrust past her into the room and slammed the door to behind him. He looked pretty dreadful. ‘I've left Nicole!'

‘What!'

He threw a sports bag down and slumped into a chair. He hadn't shaved with any accuracy, and the cuff of a shirt hung out of the sports bag.

‘She's been having an affair!'

Yes. Well. Anyone else would have tumbled to that ages ago. Bea had heard that the injured party was always the last to know. But what about his own shenanigans? He'd previously gone for blondes in a big way, but this last time it had been a redhead, hadn't it? What was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander. Not that Max would see it that way. Men didn't.

Bea frowned at the door, as there was something going on in the outer office; laughter, even a cheer or two.

Max was locked into self-pity. ‘To think that I trusted him. And her. It never occurred to me, but all the time he was making up to me, taking me for a sucker, he was having it off with her behind my back, making plans to take my place—'

‘Benton?'

‘Who else! Did you know, too? Mother, I can't believe that you would know and not warn me—'

‘You didn't want to know, Max. And any time I tried to tell you that Benton was not a saint, you bit my head off.'

He shouted, ‘You should have warned me! Nicole says you knew all along, that you went out of your way to warn her …'

The door opened. Bea glanced across to see a shadowy figure let himself in, but she had no time to spare for Leon. ‘Max, I was trying to save your marriage—'

‘You never thought to warn me? You treated me like a small child who—'

‘Enough!'

He was shocked into silence. ‘Mother, you can't—'

‘If you can't behave like an adult, then you will have to be treated like a child. Now, let's get this straight. I rang you this morning and you put me off, pretending that you didn't know—'

‘Nicole had just that minute told me Benton was dead. I was in shock!'

‘So Nicole knew before you did? I wonder how.'

‘His sister rang her. Even his sister knew that Nicole was having an affair with Benton before I did. Nicole had hysterics. I couldn't understand at first what she was on about, and when I did, when I realized what a fool she'd made of me … How many other people know, I wonder? Are they all going to be laughing at me in the House of Commons?'

‘That's the least of your worries, Max. Have you signed anything which ties you to Benton? Taken out a mortgage, or a big loan? How far did you invest in him?'

‘What? Oh. No, nothing's signed yet. We were going to … I've been made a director of the firm, but … what's going to happen there?' He put his head in his hands. ‘What a mess!'

True. Did he know that if a private company went to the wall, the directors would be responsible for any outstanding debts? Um, well. Perhaps it wouldn't be a good idea to bring that up for the moment. She leaned back in her chair, thinking hard. ‘Benton's death is actually good news for you, right?'

‘What? No, of course not. Well, I suppose if you mean—'

‘The redhead?'

He gaped. ‘Oh. Well … Yes, if you mean—'

‘Have the police been round to talk to you about him?'

A stare. ‘Why should they? Oh. You don't really think I'd want to kill Benton because he was having an affair with Nicole?'

‘Or because he had proof you were playing away from home as well?'