False Report (10 page)

‘Is this it?' The newest recruit to the office retrieved some papers from her waste-paper bin. ‘This is her writing, isn't it?'

‘Oh, my goodness!' Ianthe overdid the thankfulness. The newest recruit hadn't realized she was meant to lose the papers, not find them, had she? ‘Well, of all things!'

‘Thank you.' Bea took charge of the papers. ‘I'll see to it right away, so leave the power on, won't you, Ianthe? And –' to the new girl – ‘your name is Anna, isn't it? Can you write down the current password again for me? Oh, thank you. That's excellent. Have a good weekend, and see you all on Monday.'

Ianthe pressed her hands together. ‘Oh, but Mrs Abbot, what shall I say to Mr Jackson when he calls back, which he said he'd do before we went home this evening?'

‘Make sure the phone's switched through to my office and leave it all to me.'

Bea watched them all leave. She didn't give Ianthe a chance to reboot her computer in order to change the password again. Or to turn off the power.

She wondered at herself for being so suspicious. Ianthe didn't really mean any harm, did she? Or did she?

The office looked desolate when they'd gone. Bea checked that the door was locked to the outside world and went back through into her office with a sense of satisfaction. She liked being on her own. She liked being the one who made things happen. She tested the password Anna had given her to see if it was different from the one she'd been given that morning. It was different, yes. And it worked. Good.

She looked in vain for an email from Oliver. There was none. Oh well, if he didn't care to contact her, she wouldn't bother to contact him. He would be getting all the news from Maggie and CJ, anyway.

Quickly and efficiently she typed up Maggie's estimate, put it in an envelope and called up a courier service to have it delivered that evening.

Mr Jackson didn't ring. Hm. Well, she certainly wasn't going to chase him up.

But Maggie, now. What was the girl up to?

On the heels of that thought came the sound of the front door opening above, with a lot of puffing and panting.

‘We're back!' cried Maggie. ‘Just unloading from the taxi.'

Friday early evening

‘Listen, Nance; the man who runs the coffee shop, name of Jason, says the little man didn't come back last night, but turned up with a tall, skinny girl this morning and piled a whole load of his stuff into a taxi.

‘So I scooted round there, only to miss them by a couple of minutes. Jason says the landlord's livid at the damage to the flat and is threatening to sue the little man for everything he's got. Well, I helped Jason to nail a big sheet of ply over the door to the flat, and he promised to let me know the moment anything else happens. Where do you think he's gone? To the Abbot woman?'

‘I don't want you stirring up any more trouble—'

‘I might drop by there, see if he's around. Or I could get their telephone number and ring them, ask for him by name . . .'

Friday early evening

When Maggie had said they were unloading the taxi, she hadn't exaggerated.

First she dumped a couple of plastic bags in the hall. ‘The burglars didn't touch the bedroom, and this is about half of his clothing.'

Jeremy heaved a suitcase through the door and sat on it, panting with the effort. ‘Books weigh a ton.' He wiped his brow and staggered back down the steps for another load.

Maggie threw up her hands. ‘He had two suitcases. He's put all his books and papers in them, and I had to put everything else into black plastic bags.'

Bea went out to help. Two plastic bags plus another suitcase, plus a laptop which didn't look as if it would ever boot up again, judging by the dent in it . . . plus a dozen or so shopping bags . . .

Breathless, Jeremy staggered past Bea into the hall with a pile of CDs, topped off with an orchid in a plant pot. ‘Do you think you could pay the taxi? I'm right out of change.'

Maggie brought in some bulging carrier bags with the name of John Lewis blazoned on them. ‘He couldn't find any pyjamas so we went to buy some on the way back but then he thought of other things he needed . . . whoops, mind that stereo system, it's boxed up, but we'd best not drop it . . . and last of all, but not least, there's this . . .'

‘This' was a set of large cardboard boxes. For ‘large', think ‘enormous'. The taxi driver had to help get them out of his cab and carry them in.

‘What on earth . . .?' Bea looked for her handbag to pay the cab driver.

‘Mind his new keyboard.' Maggie picked up some of the bags. ‘I'll start toting these upstairs. I didn't mean to take the day off work, but I couldn't stop him, once he'd started. He was like a child in a sweet shop, wanting everything he set eyes on, wouldn't even stop to eat.'

Bea paid the cab driver and saw him off before picking up some of the black dustbin bags and following Maggie up the stairs. ‘I got your estimate off in the post.'

‘Oh, good. If we just dump everything in Oliver's room, he can sort it out later.'

Bea lowered her load to the floor and gave Maggie an old-fashioned look.

‘On the other hand,' said Maggie, ‘I don't suppose he'll bother, so perhaps we'd better sort it for him. I'll bring the stereo up next.'

‘I'll fetch another load. But not the books. They can stay downstairs.'

They toiled up and down the stairs until, when most things were stowed away and they were on their way back downstairs, they heard music.

Jeremy had put his new keyboard together in the sitting room and was sitting there, playing something sweet and melancholy which Bea didn't recognize. He didn't look up when they entered, but continued to play, his eyes unfocused.

He had set up his keyboard by the French windows which overlooked the garden, pushing aside the table which Bea occupied when she played patience in the evenings, and using her chair.

What was he playing? Something you could dance to; something by Mozart?

Bea sank on to the settee. Maggie folded herself into an armchair.

He was playing as if he were in a dream. The tune was there, and then it was gone, swept away by a new theme. It lifted you up and drifted you around like the petals from a cherry tree, floating here and there. A rare talent.

Bea listened and remembered going to concerts with Hamilton before he became ill. Maggie listened . . . and remembered . . . what? She was smiling, not looking at anything in particular.

Bea found her own lips had curved into a smile.

He stopped. His hands rested on the keys, his head bent over them.

Maggie shook herself. Bea's first coherent thought was that the little man would say he was hungry in a minute.

‘Any chance of a bacon sandwich?'

Maggie uncurled herself, stood and stretched. ‘Coming up.' She left her shoes behind her and went out to the kitchen.

Bea sighed. ‘Was that one of your own compositions, Jeremy?'

‘You liked it? Sometimes I just need to play. This is a beautiful room. I wish . . . I wish.' He pulled the cover down over the keys. There were silver trails on his cheeks, sliding down into his beard. ‘I wanted to play something for her, for Josie. She didn't deserve to die for what she did.'

‘I know.'

He turned to face her, not bothering to wipe away his tears. ‘Will you find out what happened to her? And . . . perhaps . . . get me my home back?'

‘I'll do my best.' She got to her feet, too. ‘Would you like tea or coffee with your sandwich?'

He didn't answer.

She went out to the kitchen. ‘I seem to have promised to solve his murder.'

Maggie blew her nose on a tissue. ‘Poor little man. He needs a minder.' She took the sandwich and a cup of tea into the sitting room.

And came back to Bea in the kitchen. ‘He's not there. He hasn't gone out, has he?'

‘We'd have heard the front door. Wouldn't we?'

‘Perhaps he's gone upstairs. He must be wiped out, with all that he's gone through.' Maggie traipsed up the stairs to the top floor. And then called down, ‘He's not here, either.'

The front doorbell rang, and Bea answered it. CJ stood there, immaculately tailored, bearing a bouquet of flowers which had definitely not been bought from the stall at the bottom of the road, or plucked from a bucket inside the nearest convenience store. ‘Ready?'

‘Um.' Bea had forgotten she was meant to be going out for a meal with him. ‘Sorry, we've had a bit of a . . . Jeremy's gone missing.'

‘Found him!' Maggie sang out from the first floor. ‘Sleeping like a babe in the guest room.'

Bea ran halfway up the stairs then – feeling her age – slowed down for the last bit. Maggie held the door open for her to see the little man had shucked off his shoes and curled up under the duvet. And yes, he was fast asleep.

Maggie said, ‘Tired out, poor love. Probably forgot that he was supposed to be using Oliver's room up top.'

CJ appeared in the doorway. ‘“Who's been sleeping in my bed, said Daddy Bear?”'

Bea closed the door. ‘This is all your fault, CJ. You wished him on me.'

‘The police still fancy him for Josie's murder. They think he paid someone to kill her for him.'

‘Nonsense,' said Bea.

Maggie said, ‘No way!'

‘Agreed.' A wolfish smile. ‘So, Bea; are you ready? I have a car waiting.'

She checked on what she was wearing. Heavens! A business suit, which was not at all appropriate for an evening out. And her hair . . . and she was sure her lipstick had long since vanished. ‘Five minutes.'

‘Ten,' said CJ, handing the bouquet to Maggie, who was still burdened with the tray holding Jeremy's snack. ‘Not a minute more.'

Bea's mobile phone rang. As she ran down the stairs to find it in her handbag, CJ followed her, saying, ‘Tell them to ring back later.'

Bea fished it out of her handbag, feeling irritated. It was her first husband, Piers. ‘Look, Piers; I'm just about to go out. Can I ring you—?'

‘This is urgent, Bea. I've found someone, you'd never guess, but you'll have to hear it for yourself. Can you get to the studio about ten tomorrow?'

‘Well, I . . .' There was so much going on at the moment, she couldn't think how she was fixed for tomorrow morning. And Ianthe—

‘It really ought to be tonight; the shock may have worn off if we leave it—'

‘What are you talking about?'

CJ strolled into sight, gesturing to his watch.

‘The Badger Game,' said Piers.

‘Oh,' said Bea. ‘Right. I'll be there.' She clicked off her phone.

CJ said, ‘Haven't you a copy of today's
Times
? I've nearly finished the crossword, but . . . I did say ten minutes, didn't I?'

Bea nodded and made her way to the door. What should she change into? How much time did she have?

And then she stopped in her tracks. CJ had asked her out for the evening, but not given her a time at which she should be ready. How like a man to assume you can drop everything and fall in with his timetable!

Bea could see Maggie in the kitchen, finding a vase in which to put CJ's bouquet of flowers. Maggie was not coping well with what was happening. Maggie had been in tears earlier that week, and Bea hadn't stopped to talk to her about it.

Well, she'd talk to Maggie tomorrow . . . after she'd been to see Piers.

Bea put her foot on the first step of the stairs and hesitated.
Dear Lord above, surely it won't hurt to leave it another day?

Yes, it would.

Which was more important: trying to sort Maggie out, or falling in line with CJ's idea of punctuality?

Bea took her foot off the step and went into the kitchen. ‘Maggie, I hate seeing you so miserable. I'm miserable, too. Can't we talk about it?'

Maggie gave a little sob, but continued to slot the flowers one by one into the vase. ‘It's all right, honest. I've always known I'd have to move on sometime.'

‘I don't want you to go.'

‘Yes, but that's the way it's got to be, isn't it? I'll manage. You don't have to worry about me at all. Or Oliver.'

‘Is Oliver angry with me? He hasn't been in touch, and I desperately need his advice.'

Maggie twisted round to look at Bea. ‘But he said . . . He tried for days but you never replied to his emails.'

Bea blinked. ‘What? But . . . Maggie, I've looked every day for emails from him, and . . . do you think that the new computer system is deleting his emails?'

‘But he tried texting you and ringing your new mobile number—'

‘What new mobile number? I haven't changed . . . On the other hand, Ianthe seems to have been dialling a wrong number and—'

CJ's voice cut her off. ‘Ten minutes, Bea?'

‘This is important, CJ. Maggie . . .?'

‘You mean . . .?'

Bea could hear her voice rise. ‘Maggie, if you really want to move out, I'll understand and help all I can. But I don't want to lose you, too.'

‘But—'

‘I did say ten minutes, didn't I?' CJ was getting sharp.

Maggie abandoned the flowers to wring her hands. ‘Max said you were selling up and giving me some money for a deposit on a flat of my own.'

‘Ah,' said Bea. ‘And you didn't think to check with me?'

Maggie reddened. ‘Nor you with me.'

Bea didn't quite know how to explain. ‘Max gets ideas occasionally; not always practical. Or desirable. You don't want to go, do you? I mean, I don't want you to.'

‘I give up!' CJ announced. ‘I'd better ring the restaurant and cancel the booking.'

Maggie tried to smile. ‘Yes, but I'm grown up now and capable of earning my own living – sort of. Maybe I ought to go.'

Bea smiled back. ‘
I
don't want you to go.
You
don't want to go. We'd better sit down and talk about it properly, don't you think?'