False Report (16 page)

‘Probably.' She made her way up the outside stairs and through the kitchen to the front door. Oliver had had a spy hole installed some time ago so she inspected their caller, put the chain on the door and opened it a few inches.

‘Detective Inspector Durrell.' A stockily-built man, swarthy as Oliver. Short dark hair, a strong face, heavy-lidded eyes. He held up his ID.

She nodded, let him in. ‘You heard we had a potential kidnapping?'

Jeremy danced around behind her. ‘I am not going down to the police station wearing pyjamas.'

‘No, of course not. Inspector, would you mind waiting while I see if my guest's clothes are fit to wear yet?'

Bea hurried Jeremy through to the kitchen, and the DI followed them. ‘Who said anything about going down to the station? It's a Saturday afternoon, isn't it? I ought to be taking my sons to watch Fulham play.'

‘Fulham, is it?' Jeremy perched on a stool. ‘Now I'm all for a good game – but I prefer a smaller ground. Brentford for me.'

Bea started to pull Jeremy's clothing out of the drier, checking to see if any keys or other important articles had been left in them. ‘You men and football!'

Jeremy seized on a worn pair of jeans, with an expression of delight. ‘These are the most comfortable ones I've ever had. And, oh – here's my house keys, too. Just a mo, and I'll change.'

Bea held up a couple of T-shirts. ‘Don't you need one of these?'

He grabbed one from Bea and disappeared into the hall to change.

Bea shouted after him. ‘What about socks? And where are your shoes?'

He didn't reply. She sighed and folded the rest of the clothes into a neat pile. ‘Inspector, a cuppa while we wait for him?'

‘I wouldn't mind.' He took a stool. He had an air of calm, a restful presence. ‘You really think it was an attempted kidnapping?'

‘What else?' Bea switched the kettle on and shook the biscuit tin, which was, surprisingly, full. Jeremy couldn't have found it yet. Or perhaps Maggie had replenished it behind his back. The cat Winston appeared as if by magic. Naturally. She shoved him off the work surface, knowing he'd be back on again as soon as her back was turned.

Jeremy returned, still barefoot, but now wearing a T-shirt with a hole in it and his jeans. He was smiling. ‘I wouldn't mind another cuppa, too.'

Bea made tea in her biggest teapot and put the milk carton on the table for the men to help themselves. What had Maggie planned for them to eat at supper time? She investigated the contents of the fridge. Mm. Not enough sausages to feed four of them, especially as Oliver could eat as much as Jeremy.

There was some half-thawed braising steak, which had probably been intended for tomorrow. Let tomorrow take care of itself. She put it in the microwave to finish thawing and reached for the big Le Creuset stew pot.

Jeremy and the inspector both had their hands in the biscuit tin. Jeremy seemed disposed to like the inspector. He said, ‘We can describe the kidnapper to you. But, oh . . . where's Oliver gone? He put our notes on his laptop. He plays the keys like a professional pianist.'

The DI poured them both a cuppa. ‘Tell me what you remember.'

Jeremy told him. He was surprisingly good at remembering details.

Bea busied herself sautéing a chopped onion, and she added whatever leftover vegetables she could find at the bottom of the fridge. A stock cube. Bay leaves? Yes, a couple of those. Salt and pepper and a clove of garlic. Water.

‘Have you anything to add, Mrs Abbot?'

Bea popped the stew into the oven, thinking hard. ‘Well, Maggie thought he might be the same man who delivered the pizza here last night, but then she said he couldn't be because that man had bushy dark eyebrows, and this man didn't. Only, she didn't seem sure about it. She's out, by the way, and so is Oliver. Business. They'll be back in a couple of hours, maybe.'

The DI seemed to like shortbread, whereas Jeremy was going for the chocolate-covered biscuits. The DI said, ‘So the man yesterday was distinguished by thick eyebrows, whereas the man today wore a toupee and thick-rimmed tinted glasses? A good con man adds something distinctive to his appearance, something you'd remember above all else. Heavy eyebrows. Glasses. Toupee. If you took those away, could it be the same man?'

‘I don't know. I didn't see the man last night.' Should she make a cake, as well? Oliver would appreciate it, never mind Jeremy.

‘I didn't see him, either,' said Jeremy, eyeing the last chocolate biscuit. ‘But he asked for me by name, which must mean he knew I was here. But, how ever could he have tracked me down? And why? What does he want with me?'

Bea shivered. ‘Leave it to the police. They'll find out.'

TEN

J
eremy's hand hovered over the biscuit tin. ‘Inspector, am I officially off the hook for Josie's death?'

‘We know you couldn't have killed her. She was a tall girl, wasn't she?'

‘Five ten?'

‘Near enough. She took a couple of blows to the head, which probably knocked her out, and was then strangled by someone with big hands.'

Jeremy choked on his biscuit. Served him right for taking the last one.

The DI hit Jeremy on his back. ‘Your hands are on the small side, aren't they? Is that a problem when playing the piano?'

‘Poor Josie.' Jeremy wiped his eyes. ‘She was just a little country girl, you know, bemused by the big city.'

Bea felt her eyebrows rise as she took flour, sugar, eggs and corn oil out of the cupboard and started weighing ingredients.

The DI seemed to share her feelings. ‘It would help us a lot, Mr Waite, if you could tell us everything you can remember about Josie. You said you were on good terms, right up to the moment she sprung her little, er, surprise on you. Did she say where she came from?'

‘A village somewhere in Ireland. I don't think she ever told me where it was. A dead end place, no jobs for a bright girl.'

‘How did she come to England?'

‘Some boy she met at a dance fell in love with her, promised her marriage, brought her over here under false pretences; the old story, I suppose. Said he'd fix her up with a job and a room to start with – just till he could find somewhere for them to move in together. Then they were to get married. That's what she told me when she first knocked on my door, anyway. I'm not sure I believe that, now.'

The DI had a notebook out. ‘What address? Can you remember?'

‘Oh yes. It's in the next street to . . . to where I lived. I went round there once to leave a message for her, and it was true that the woman let rooms out, though she said she wasn't supposed to. She denied all knowledge of Josie at first, and then said that yes, the girl had had a room there once, but had moved on.'

‘Address?'

Jeremy gave it, wrinkling his brow.

Mm. Bea thought there were similarities here to Angie's story; the pied-à-terre locally, the rooms to let . . .

The inspector peered into the empty biscuit tin. ‘Probably about half of that was true. He'd get her over here, seduce her and set her to work for him. If she really did come from a village in Ireland and was cut off from her family and friends, she wouldn't know how to deal with the situation. Can you pinpoint the date she approached you?'

‘Sometime early in the spring term. If I could get hold of my diary . . . I seem to have left it at home, or maybe back at the flat? Oh, that's a nuisance. I must find it, as I'm sure there's a meeting I'm supposed to be at next week, or perhaps it was this last week . . . but if I could get hold of it, then I could tell you, because it was just before half term. School half term, I mean.'

Bea separated the eggs, stirred the yolks into the other ingredients, and set the mix aside to line some cake tins with greaseproof paper, all the time wondering how the girl had known Jeremy would be a soft touch. He wasn't an obviously wealthy type, was he? Not at all like the other possible targets she'd heard about.

The DI said, ‘I can check when that was. Now, Mr Waite; you may have been surprised not to be asked to identify the girl you knew as Josie—'

Clearly, it had never occurred to Jeremy that he might have been asked to do so. But, ‘Knew as? You mean the girl that was killed wasn't Josie?'

‘I mean that the fingerprints of the girl we found at the back of the church have been identified as belonging to a girl called Angela Josephine Butt.'

‘Angie . . .' said Bea, remembering Piers' story about another girl who'd been on the Badger Game.

Jeremy was puzzled. ‘Josie's name was “Butt”? She told me her name was Kelly. Josie Kelly.'

‘Hm. Well. She did use other pseudonyms as well.'

‘She had a record?' Jeremy was distressed to hear it. ‘For . . .?'

‘Soliciting. In the King's Cross area. It looks as if a man brought her over from Ireland and put her straight to work. Three convictions, the last one eighteen months ago. Since then, nothing.'

Jeremy hoped for a happy ending, still. ‘So, she was off the game when she met me?'

‘No recent convictions for soliciting, so yes, it does look as if she was off the streets.'

Bea said, ‘On a point of order, do you know how old she was?'

‘Nineteen.'

Jeremy sighed. ‘I
said
I didn't think she was sixteen. All that about her being under age was made up to frighten me, wasn't it? It lost me my job at school . . . but maybe that was a good thing, because I've moved on, now.'

The inspector asked, ‘Did she ever try to get you to kiss her, or suggest you got closer?'

He reddened. ‘Well, no. That would have been embarrassing. You see, er, it's not really my thing. Had a bit of an accident, came off a motorbike when I was twenty-one, my own fault entirely, slippery road, didn't listen to warnings, had too much to drink . . . but there it is. All that side of things . . . muted, if you see what I mean? Nothing to be done about it.'

Bea suspended operations with the egg whisk. ‘You mean . . . you can't? In bed?' She blushed.

‘That's right,' said Jeremy, not perturbed. ‘All in the past. They said some feeling might return eventually, but so far it hasn't. Can't be helped. Life goes on.'

‘But if Josie never tried . . .' She glanced at the DI, whose mouth, she noted, was also hanging open.

The DI recovered to say, ‘She didn't ever suggest anything in that direction?'

Delicately put. Bea shook herself. She began to fold egg whites into the mixture and scoop it into the cake tins.

‘No, never. Not until, you know, that last night.' Jeremy's eyes were on Bea. ‘Are you making a sponge cake? My first wife used to make it like that.'

‘Your first . . .?'

‘Didn't last.' He sighed. ‘We were newly married when it happened. I thought we might adopt, but she decided to try someone whose equipment was functioning properly, so that was that. And then, when I met Eunice, she said she didn't mind.'

‘Eunice knew?' Bea heard her voice squeak as she transferred the stew pot to the bottom of the oven, popped the cake mix in on top, and turned up the gas.

‘Oh yes. Of course. She said she wanted a quiet life after the disaster of her first marriage; he beat her up, you know. Well, he only did it the once, because Eunice wasn't one to be put upon. It's only recently that I realized she was perhaps hankering after a little more excitement in that direction.' He sighed. Then brightened. ‘How long will the cake be?'

Bea handed him the pile of his clothes. ‘Take those upstairs, put them away, and find yourself some shoes to wear. By that time the cake will be done.'

The DI closed the door after Jeremy. ‘He doesn't realize, does he?'

‘You think Josie must have been told by someone – someone who knew about Jeremy's disability – not to go down that road? You think that's why she never tried anything – before the end?'

‘Which didn't matter, because all they needed to do was to get photographs of her naked and clutching him.'

‘Only, instead of standing by her man, Eunice turned him out of the house, though she knew he was physically incapable of making love to Josie.'

‘Which means she used it as an excuse to get rid of him.'

The DI said, softly. ‘Ouch. Poor little man.'

‘He's in the clear for Josie's murder?'

‘Unless we discover he hired someone to do it for him.'

‘Why would he? He'd already lost everything he had: his home, his job – even his car. Oh, I suppose you could say he turned on Josie and killed her in revenge for what she'd done to him. Nah. Doesn't sound like him.'

‘We're looking at anyone who might have known Josie in the past, someone who knew her when she was on the streets, someone who might know what happened to her after that.'

Bea started to clear up. ‘You might find – I'm not sure that it's the same girl – but I'm told a girl named Angie worked the Badger Game on an elderly businessman, who later committed suicide. Neither he nor his son could believe the girl wasn't as innocent as the newborn day. Elderly man was caught when he fiddled the books – presumably to pay the girl off – by which time the girl had vanished from her lodgings. The problem is that the widow and the son say they'll deny everything if you start asking questions.'

‘You think two or three people are doing this as a regular means of income?'

Bea counted on her fingers. ‘Josie, who may also have been working as “Angie”; the photographer; and the pseudo policeman who called on us today. Three people. My point is that if they've done it once, perhaps they've done it several times.'

‘And maybe will again? There's a nasty thought.' His mobile phone pinged, and he pulled it out with a sigh. ‘The wife. Texting to know when I'll be back. I'd better go. You'll keep the little man safe from harm?'