False Report (19 page)

Phil tilted the driving mirror to provide a view of his face as he darkened his eyebrows. ‘Haven't you got a “Doctor On Call” notice?'

‘I must get Nance to make me one.' He yawned. ‘Not many people about. All at the pub or watching the football on telly. He'll come down the road towards us, won't he?'

‘Uh-huh. Hah! I think that's the landlord's car, just driven up. Look at him; tub of lard. Bet he never takes any exercise. Probably got asthma
and
diabetes. Where does he think he's going to park, eh?'

They watched as Jason opened the café door and yelled to the fat little man to pull over with his wheels up on the pavement.

‘The traffic warden will have him for that.'

‘It's Saturday night, stupid. They'll all be watching the footie.'

The fat man parked and, wheezing, followed Jason into the shop. His neck bulged over his shirt.

‘High blood pressure,' said Phil. ‘Ought to take more exercise.'

Jason and the landlord came out of the coffee bar and went round the corner to tackle the door to the upstairs flat. Jason was a big lad. He used a crowbar to tear off the plywood that had been nailed over the door, and then followed the landlord inside and up the stairs. A light went on in the first-floor flat.

Phil slid out of the passenger door. ‘I'm going to wait for the target round the corner from the café.' He took a bundle out of the back of the van and crossed the road. Jonno returned the driving mirror to its original position.

Dusk softened the distances and muted the sound of traffic in the streets nearby.

Saturday evening

Twilight was upon them, and the temperature was dropping. Bea decided that Jeremy would need something to put on over his T-shirt as well as change his slippers for some shoes. He seemed to have left his belongings on every floor, and in almost every room of the house. He himself hadn't a clue where he'd put anything, but it didn't seem to bother him, for while Bea played Hunt the Shoes, he went back to tinkering with Josie's melody on his keyboard.

Bea tried to work out where he'd left his belongings and why. On the first night she and Maggie had hauled his belongings up to the top floor and Jeremy had slept in Oliver's bed. There was still a lot of Jeremy's stuff strewn around Oliver's room. Oliver would have to lump it.

Bea pounced on a plastic bag and found two pairs of Jeremy's shoes: dress shoes and some sandals. In a pile of clothes on the floor there was a denim jacket which would go with the jeans he was wearing.

On the second night, he'd crashed out in the spare bedroom, and Bea found more of his things there, including the pile of clothes he'd washed, which Bea had asked him to put away. Oh well. She picked out a clean T-shirt without a hole in it and found another pair of sandals under the bed.

She sighed. He'd slept in both beds without changing the sheets. Well, perhaps Oliver wouldn't mind sleeping in the sheets Jeremy had used once, because Bea didn't have the time to change them, and she couldn't ask Maggie to help her do this because she'd gone off with Oliver straight after shoving the supper things into the dishwasher. As she took Jeremy's things downstairs, Bea wondered where the little man would try to sleep tonight, and what Oliver might have to say about it.

‘Shoes.' She handed them to him. ‘Clean T-shirt. Jacket. Have you got a cheque book with you?'

‘Whatever for?'

‘To pay the landlord for the damage.'

‘Won't the agent take it out of my deposit?'

‘Would it be enough?'

‘Three months rent in advance, plus a whacking great deposit? I should hope so.' He shucked off his torn T-shirt.

And the phone rang.

This time it was Piers. ‘Bea, my love. Fancy a night on the tiles?'

‘You're only asking me out because you want something from me.'

‘You wound me deeply. Would I . . .? No, don't answer that. But it's a beautiful evening, and I thought you might be at a loose end.'

‘Far from it. I'm babysitting. Someone trashed the flat Jeremy was living in, and his landlord is on the warpath, so I promised to walk him over there to face the music . . . Forgive the mixed metaphors.'

‘What? Well, it won't take long, will it? I could pick you up after, and we could—'

Exasperation fought with affection. ‘One thing at a time, Piers. Looking after Jeremy is like herding cats.'

Jeremy didn't take offence, which was one of the lovable things about him. He laughed and shook his head at her. ‘It's all right. You go out with whoever. I know the way.'

‘Hold on, Jeremy. You haven't a key to get back in with.'

He was halfway out of the front door, whistling Josie's tune to himself. And not listening to Bea.

Bea said, ‘Look, Piers. I'll ring you back later, if I may. Or . . . no, it's getting late, isn't it?'

‘I'm not having you wander the streets at night by yourself, especially now there's a killer loose in your area. Tell me where you're going, and I'll meet you there.'

She told him and rang off. Seizing her handbag, she ran down the steps and into the street after Jeremy. She wouldn't be surprised if he'd set off in the wrong direction. But no, he was trundling along at a cracking pace towards Church Street.

She wished she'd thought to slip into some low-heeled shoes before she set off after him. The lights turned red at the bottom of the hill, the traffic stopped, and he crossed the main road without breaking his stride. The lights turned green, and the traffic moved off as Bea reached the same place. A bus blocked Bea's view of Jeremy. Well, she knew where he was heading, didn't she?

She crossed the street as the lights changed again, but couldn't see him. She followed in his footsteps and turned into the next street – it was little more than a lane, a narrow road with a narrow pavement on one side and no pavement at all on the other. There were parked cars sporting residents' parking tickets down the right-hand side, allowing just enough space for a single lane of traffic to pass through. One way only.

The street was lined with terraced housing which had once been workers' cottages but were now priced out of any workman's reach. It was something of a surprise to find the road surface was tarmacked instead of cobbled. She'd heard that in some old London streets they'd left the cobbles and tarmacked over them.

There was the café on the corner of the next intersection. Shut. There was a light on inside it, but no one there.

And no Jeremy.

There was a light on in the room above the café. That must be where his flat had been, and he must have gone up there to meet with his landlord. She wished Maggie had come with her, because Maggie would know where the door to his flat might be.

She could hear someone thumping. A dull thump. A van parked in the road outside the café shook in time with the thumps.

What on earth . . .?

There was someone in the driver's seat, probably drunk. How disgusting! The night was closing in and making it hard to see . . .

The driver fell away from her, back across the passenger seat, even as someone big and bulky slipped out of the van through the far door. She only had the fleetest of sightings . . . someone in dark clothing? A man, probably, but she could hardly be sure of that, even. He or she ran away from her down the road, barely making any sound. Wearing trainers?

She looked around. She didn't understand what was happening, but feared . . . she didn't know what. Was that Jeremy sliding down in the driver's seat? No. The driver was a bigger man, wearing a baseball cap.

Probably nothing to do with her, or Jeremy.

The driver was drunk, probably. Too drunk to stay upright.

Another quick glance around. There was no one else in sight.

Absurd to think Jeremy might be in trouble. He'd gone up to his old flat, and if she could only find the door . . .

Despite herself, fear crept down her backbone.

She reached in her handbag for her mobile phone – which she must have left at home. She wished the people inside the van would stop thumping. Were they having sex there, while the driver was . . .? No, it wasn't Jeremy in the front of the van. It couldn't be. Anyway, why would Jeremy be lying down on the front seat of a van in this deserted street?

She rapped on the window of the van. ‘Are you all right?'

She was a tall woman, but she had to stand on tiptoe to see inside the van. The driver had fallen down till his head was against the far door, his knees under the wheel. She couldn't make out his face properly.

His mouth moved. Did it?

Could he possibly be dead? No, no. Ridiculous. He was obviously drunk.

Except that someone had killed Josie not a hundred yards from where they were. And someone had left the van by the opposite door in a hurry.

The driver had been wearing a baseball cap, which had ended up over his face. Was his head shaven? Yes, it might be. He was much too big to be Jeremy. Whoever he was, he had fallen into an uncomfortable position and wasn't moving.

Perhaps whoever was banging away in the van could help him. She slapped on the side of the van. ‘Help there! Someone, help me!' The thumping stopped, and there was a listening silence. If anyone had heard her, they were not going to interfere.

Suppose the driver had been attacked by his passenger, but was still alive? Suppose he'd had a heart attack and needed medical help? She dithered. Should she ring for an ambulance?

They wouldn't be best pleased to be called out for a drunk sleeping it off in his van, would they? And, she had forgotten her mobile phone.

She set her teeth. She must check before she yelled for help.

She tugged at the handle of the van door, and it opened. The driver never moved, but there was an aroma in the air . . . sweetish. She sniffed. Couldn't place it.

She leaned across him. The man was a stranger. He was warm to touch. Under the shadow of his cap, his eyes looked unnatural. A trick of the light, of course. But it did look as if they were bulging out of his head. His tongue, too.

She tugged on his sleeve, located a hand. It felt floppy. She couldn't feel any pulse. Was she holding his wrist in the right place? She wished she knew some first aid.

Someone or something erupted from the back of the van, shaking it hard. She abandoned her search for the driver's pulse and stood back. ‘Your friend . . .'

She recognized him, despite – or perhaps because of – the toupee.

TWELVE

Saturday evening

T
he man with the toupee recognized her, too. ‘What? How . . .?'

Was he going to attack her? Bea took an involuntary step backwards. ‘I think the driver may be . . . A man got out of the passenger seat as I came along. He ran off down the road.' She pointed.

‘What . . .?' He glanced that way, glanced back. Thrust her aside to lean into the cab. He pushed the driver's cap away, felt for a pulse.

‘Strangled, do you think?' Her voice went high on her.

He nodded, his throat working, eyes wide with shock.

The van shook under another assault from inside.

Now she guessed what was making the van shake. ‘You've got Jeremy in the back?'

‘He killed Josie. He's got to pay for it.' A plea for understanding.

She tried to bring her voice down from panic stations. ‘Idiot! Jeremy couldn't have killed her, any more than he could have killed your driver. You were busy in the van with Jeremy when I saw this other man run off.'

He stared at her, in shock. ‘Jeremy killed Josie . . . with an accomplice.'

She snapped at him. ‘That's ridiculous, and you know it.'

He took a step towards her, and she quailed. Was he going to hit her?

The van shuddered, the back doors flew open, and to a stream of curses, a strangely shaped bundle caterpillared its way over the tail and fell out on to the road, where it rolled over and over. Two denim-clad legs waved in the air.

Jeremy? Well, it was someone about his size with a plastic sack over his head which had been fastened around his hips with heavy-duty tape. Only his legs were showing. He had lost one of his shoes and wasn't wearing socks. By the sound of it, he was having a two-year-old's tantrum. But, thought Bea, who could blame him?

At least he was still alive. And complaining.

She said, ‘You've kidnapped the wrong person.'

From somewhere nearby came the sound of a police siren carving its way through traffic. Someone must have seen or heard what was going on and alerted the police.

The man in the toupee heard it, too. He thrust Bea away from the van. She staggered and almost fell, only to see him clamber into the driving seat, pushing his accomplice further over. The keys were still in the ignition. He turned the key and, cool as you please, drove off.

Bea told herself to make a note of the licence number as the van disappeared, but someone had taken the precaution of dirtying the plate. Her hands were shaking too much for her to use a pen, anyway. It was a plain white van, no markings on it.

The police siren came nearer. The bundle that was Jeremy tried to sit up, squawking.

And Piers came strolling along.

‘About time, too,' she said, getting down on her hands and knees beside Jeremy and trying to control her shakes. ‘Keep still, Jeremy. Let me see how to get this tape off.' She tried to get a fingernail under the tape, which refused to budge. ‘Piers, you don't happen to have a penknife on you?'

Jeremy was spluttering and swearing inside his plastic bag. He wasn't going to run out of air and suffocate, was he?

Piers squatted beside her, viewing the wriggling, cursing bundle that was Jeremy. ‘Who or what is this? And why is he trussed up in a plastic sack? Of course I don't carry a knife. No one does, nowadays. At least, not if they don't want to be arrested for carrying an offensive weapon. Would a pair of nail scissors do?'