False Money (13 page)

‘Chris holds parties sometimes?'

‘He used to.' Cautiously. ‘Until one night there was some damage. I think the carpet and an armchair had to be replaced, and a table repolished. His father said Chris must limit himself to small numbers in future; ten, I think he said. Not sure that Chris had any more parties after that, though he wants to arrange something special in a couple of weeks' time to celebrate his birthday.'

‘Neither Maggie nor you are really involved in his film-making, but you'll be invited to his birthday party. How many other circles does he access?'

‘He makes friends easily.'

Which was more than Oliver did. On the other hand, friends like Maggie and Zander were good for all weather conditions, which might not apply to those whom Chris gathered around himself.

Bea sighed. ‘I give up. Let's have supper, shall we?'

He switched off lights, held the door open for her to precede him. ‘I envy him, really. I've stood on the sidelines, cold stone sober, watching him walk into a party and become the focus of the room. I've tried to join in, but I can't. I'm a regular party-pooper, they say.' He smiled, disguising discomfort. ‘Same applies at uni. Luckily there are other people there who prefer jazz and conversation to getting drunk. Some of us are really into modern jazz, all curved bits and wobbly pieces. Not everyone likes it, but I'm learning to appreciate it. I promise not to play it too loud.'

‘My dear boy! That's wonderful. This house is so well built that if you shut your bedroom door, I won't hear it. Or if I do . . . Well, I can always buy some earplugs, can't I?'

‘No, no.' He reddened. ‘I can mute it. So . . . shall I put the pie in the oven now?'

‘
Nick, is that you? Claire here. I'm just on my way home, but the Mini's playing up again and, as you know, my beloved's not around. I wonder, didn't you say you knew some garage that would look at a car and not charge an arm and a leg?
'

‘
What? Who? Oh, Claire. Caught me at a bad moment, I'm afraid.
'

‘
You sound as if you're going down with something. Not the dreaded flu?
'

‘
No, no. It's – the thing is, you won't have heard, but it's quite a shock. Harry's dead. I had to phone him at work about something, only to hear he hadn't come in. They phoned me back later. He pulled the chain, committed suicide. Yesterday.
'

‘
What? You mean Tomi's boyfriend, Harry?
'

‘
Who else? Anyway, he'd given her the chuck, hadn't he, and the rumour is – not that I believe it, mind you—
'

‘
I'm shocked. Oh, oh!' Stifled tears. Beautifully done. Effective. ‘Oh, I'd better not try to drive when I'm crying. Oh dear, I nearly crashed into the car in front.
'

‘
Claire, are you there? Are you all right?
'

‘
Yes, I suppose . . . Oh, that's terrible. Can I park here? I don't think I'm safe to drive. Oh, I'd better leave the car here, take a taxi home. Oh, if only my beloved were back. I can't bear the thought of being alone, all by myself, when such terrible things are happening. You men are so strong, can cope with anything, but oh dear, whatever shall I do?
'

‘
I'm having a stiff drink, I can tell you.
'

‘
I don't like going to the pub by myself. Oh dear, oh dear! And yet, tonight of all nights, I wouldn't mind—
'

‘
Where are you?
'

‘
I think . . . Just round the corner from you. Yes, that's right. In the next road. Lucky to find a parking place at this time of night. Oh, I'm all of a tremble, silly me.
'

‘
Why don't you pop round, then? We can drown our sorrows together.
'

A sniff. Blow nose. ‘Ten minutes? You are so good to me, Nick!
'

EIGHT

B
ea wasn't particularly surprised to find that there would be a full house for supper. Maggie and Zander, CJ and his son Chris, herself and Oliver, plus Winston the cat. Winston had his own dish of cat food on the floor but liked human food as well.

Six made a tight fit around the kitchen worktop, but they managed. Whoever was nursing Winston prevented him from actually eating off their plates, and he managed to beg enough titbits to satisfy himself.

Bea did suggest, half-heartedly, that they use the proper dining table in the big room, but was shouted down. Perhaps CJ might have been more comfortable on a proper chair instead of a stool but, as he'd invited himself, it didn't matter, did it?

‘Tell me,' said Bea to Zander as he was stacking the dishwasher, ‘I'm trying to work out how people with different interests get to know one another. For instance, how did you come to know Tomi?'

‘I was in the pub up the road with Oliver when Tomi came in with Harry. While Harry got their drinks, Oliver introduced me. I'd seen her before somewhere, but couldn't place her for a while, and she felt the same. Eventually we worked out that we'd both been at a church International Evening. She'd been on the tea urn, and I was stewarding. We didn't attend the same church, but it was another link.'

Bea tried to work out distances. ‘The pub up the road is some way off Harry's place and even further away from Tomi's.'

‘It's fashionable,' said Oliver. ‘Harry liked to be at the right place at the right time. He knew some of the others who go there. Brian, who lives up the road—'

Chris jumped in. ‘That's who I was talking to, when I last saw Tomi. I wonder if we can get hold of him, ask him if he remembers who she went over the road to see?'

‘Hold on a minute,' said Bea. ‘How did Brian know Harry?'

Chris shrugged. Zander looked puzzled. ‘I don't know Brian, do I?'

Maggie clattered knives and forks into the dishwasher. ‘I think I know Brian by sight. How do you know him, Chris?'

‘Through the Health Club. Father owns a race horse. You remember him, Oliver?'

‘Vaguely. But—'

The landline rang, and Maggie swooped on it. ‘I'm expecting one or two people to ring back about Tomi. I said after supper, and so . . . Yes, it's me. Hi. You got my message?'

CJ collected Bea and Oliver with a flick of his eyebrow. He was the only person Bea knew who could dominate when he chose and be invisible at other times. She led them out of the kitchen and into the big living room. He shut the door and gestured that they should take a seat. Even in Bea's own house, he acted as if he were the host. ‘A word. Not to go outside these four walls. Can I trust you?'

Bea and Oliver nodded. Of those left behind in the kitchen, Chris had a leaky tongue, and Maggie could be indiscreet at times. Probably only Zander could be trusted not to betray a confidence.

CJ steepled his fingers, looked over them. ‘The autopsy on Tomilola. She was drugged with barbiturates – probably sleeping pills – then given an injection of heroin. Either would have killed her.'

The room was quiet.

A murmur from Oliver. ‘Murder?'

CJ nodded.

‘Rape?' from Bea.

CJ shook his head. ‘No interference. Fully clothed as per your report of what she was wearing when last seen. No sign of a struggle. Her handbag was beside her, also the library books, which are – I'm sorry to say – rather the worse for wear since the weather has been inclement. Her credit cards were in her bag, but no cash or notes.'

Oliver said, ‘If it was a robbery gone wrong, why did the murderer leave the credit cards?'

‘The police believe that Harry took the cash because it was untraceable, and its absence would make it look as if Tomi's death were a robbery gone wrong. They think he might not have known how to sell the credit cards, which is why he left them behind.'

‘Humph,' said Bea.

CJ ignored that. ‘Tell me; what would
you
expect to find in a young woman's handbag nowadays?'

Oliver shrugged, but Bea concentrated. ‘House keys, credit cards, wallet, travel pass, purse for change. Make-up, hairbrush, mirror, etcetera. MP3 player of some kind? Tissues, letters, bills – paid and unpaid. Perhaps a book of puzzles, or an electronic game? Pens, pencils. Something to read? Mobile phone, of course.'

‘Anything else?'

‘Address book and diary; something small enough to carry around with her. There were large ones among her belongings at the flat, but I think she'd carry smaller ones around with her for every day.'

Oliver agreed. ‘She had both.'

CJ frowned. ‘There was no small diary or address book. Everything else you've thought of is there; except for the mobile phone, of course.'

‘Which the murderer took to use for himself? Or herself? Whichever. He or she used Tomi's phone in the first place to make people think the girl had gone off to France, then to lure Chris out to Fulmer late on Saturday or early Sunday. And we know she was dead by then.'

CJ looked at the clock. ‘My bedtime. We'll keep in touch, right?'

Oliver wasn't ready to let go of the subject yet. ‘What about Harry?'

‘Autopsy tomorrow.'

Bea said, ‘Did they find his mobile phone?'

‘No.'

‘I've heard,' said Oliver, ‘that murderers sometimes collect trophies from their victims. I wonder if that's what's happening here. I mean, a murderer might well take Tomi's phone to use for themselves, but why take Harry's as well?'

CJ said, ‘The two deaths may not be connected.'

A vague thought connecting mobile phones and diaries swam around at the back of Bea's mind, but she couldn't make sense of it. Trying and failing to pin it down, she saw CJ out of the house. Oliver went to join the others in the kitchen, from which came the sound of laughter and voices. Someone was talking on the phone? Someone – Zander? – tapping on a keyboard. Entering the new data?

Bea decided not to interfere. She returned to the sitting room and went to sit at the table at the far end. She settled herself, leaning back to look up at the portrait of Hamilton, her second and much loved husband, which had been painted by Piers, who had been her first. Piers had swum back into her life of late, but Hamilton had gone on ahead, and she missed him terribly.

Hamilton had been accustomed to sit at that table to play patience with real cards. He claimed it freed his mind to operate on the back burner, while his conscious mind concentrated on moving cards around.

Bea tried doing the same thing. She got out a double pack of patience cards and dealt them out, eight cards across and eight down. Bottom cards face up. Turn over the rest of the pack in threes. Aces up and build on them.

She couldn't get the game out. Finally she put the cards away and looked up at the paint and canvas which was all she had left of her second husband, apart from memories. So many happy years. Hard work. Honesty. Laughter. Wisdom.

The eyes in the picture still seemed to be telling her that he loved her and valued her above rubies. She knew that if she got up and moved around the room, the eyes would follow her.

Hamilton had managed Max much better than she had. Max had looked up to him as to a father. Piers had never been much of a father, had he? Although, to give him his due, he did care for his son nowadays.

Nicole. Oh dear. What to do or say? Had Bea damaged even the fragile relationship they'd achieved over the years? The problem was – and here Bea had to talk severely to herself – that she had never really liked the girl. That afternoon, for instance, Bea had wanted to take Nicole by her bony shoulders and shake her till she rattled. Or slap her. Either. Or both.

Bea grinned. Of course, she wouldn't really do it. But oh, how she'd like to.

She scolded herself, half-heartedly. Bad girl, slap on wrist! Perhaps she'd better put in some praying time about Nicole.

Her mind wandered, and she found herself thinking of the girl Tomi, dying in a country lane. The method of her death spoke of premeditation. First stupefy with drugs, and then polish off with an injection.

Some medical knowledge there?

Bea turned her head to the door. The youngsters were leaving the house for the pub to celebrate Chris's birthday. She loved Oliver and Maggie dearly, but it was good to be alone for once. She let the silence fold around her and was soothed.

When she found herself yawning, she went up to bed and read for a while. Winston the cat followed her up and settled down to give himself a good wash and brush up. She stroked him absent-mindedly, and he gave her hand a good licking, too . . . which made her laugh.

She might doze off, but wouldn't be able to fall into a deep sleep until Oliver and Maggie were safely back home again. She heard them come in and checked the time on her bedside clock. Half eleven. Not bad.

She continued to read for a while, half hearing some music, but not being able to place it. Maggie always hooked herself up to her player when she wanted to listen to music. Could it be Oliver playing his radio? Ah, he'd mentioned he was into some modern jazz. Gracious me. But the sound was not too obtrusive. Quite sweet, in its own way. She didn't find it objectionable.

She put her book on the bedside table and in doing so knocked her bible to the floor. Bother. Various postcards acting as bookmarks had fallen out. More bother. She scooped them up and then, holding her bible, stared into space.