False Report (22 page)

‘Mm.'

‘So why did she throw me out? Only one answer. She was tired of me and wanted to use the evidence to divorce me. She might hope that if I were pushed off balance enough, she could keep the house.'

‘Mm.'

‘I don't like thinking that she could do such a thing, but there's no other explanation is there? Which leads me to wonder whether . . . it's hard to believe anyone would go to those lengths but . . . do you think she asked someone to set me up?'

Yes, of course she did, you silly man. But Bea didn't want to pour acid on Jeremy's wounds. ‘I suppose it's possible.'

‘Which means that she knows someone who's in the gang? Someone who knew what Josie did for a living?'

‘We can't assume that. I suppose she might have asked around to see if anyone knew someone who might help her. There are rumours circulating about other men who've been targeted by similar scams, and Eunice moves in the sort of circles which might hear about such things.'

‘It's unbearable, to think that Eunice – and Clarissa – should . . .'

‘Betray you?'

A sigh. ‘I knew, and I didn't know. I didn't know before Josie died, but since then I've had to take a good hard look at what's been happening. I don't think Eunice or Clarissa had any hand in Josie's death.'

‘No. They had nothing to gain by it.'

‘Then who did? The inspector seemed to think it might have been one of her other . . . clients. Would you call them clients?'

‘As good a term as any.'

‘I didn't pay her for sex. I liked her. I enjoyed her company.'

‘I understand that sometimes that may be enough, that men are willing to pay just for company.'

Another deep sigh. ‘Poor little Josie.'

‘There's one good thing about all this. Since last night's attack on you, the police are pretty sure you had nothing to do with her murder, and I believe that Josie's friends have come to the same conclusion.'

‘What I don't understand is, why anyone would want to kill her? She was harmless. She wouldn't have hurt anyone.'

‘She was the means they used to threaten other men's reputation. She wasn't without sin.'

‘Sin? An ugly word. Wasn't she more sinned against than sinning?'

‘And while we're thinking about girls who stray, which of us would want to throw the first stone? Which of us is without sin?'

‘What? Oh. That's in the Bible, isn't it? Didn't they used to stone such girls to death? Even knowing what I do now, I wouldn't want to see that happening to her.' He sat up straight, looked around him. ‘It's very peaceful here. You have a beautiful home, Mrs Abbot, and you've been more than generous to me. Thank you for giving me sanctuary. I know I've given you a lot of trouble. I apologize and I'll try to make it up to you.'

‘Nonsense. Would you like some more soup?'

‘No, I'd . . . Do you think you could lend me some black plastic bags? I'll try to get my things together and get out of your house. There's lots of hotels around here. I'm sure one of them can find me a room.'

She patted his hand. ‘You're not going anywhere until this is sorted. Do you have a good solicitor, who can help you get your own house back?'

He pulled a face. ‘Up against Eunice?'

‘Do you want your house back, or not? Think it through. I've got someone in mind who may be able to pop in every afternoon to keep you straight, fill the fridge with food, that sort of thing. If that's what you want.'

He took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I would like my house back. You might think it's too big for me all by myself, but I did live there alone before I met Eunice, and it didn't seem too big then. I like space around me. If I get lonely, perhaps I could take in a couple of students, or let part of it to a professional man. That would be sensible, wouldn't it?'

‘And it would help to pay the council tax and utility bills. Right. Have you still got your house keys, and the keys to your car?'

‘Yes, but—'

‘Would you like me to come with you to see Eunice some time – perhaps tomorrow afternoon?'

‘You'll think me a poor sort of creature. But, yes; if you could spare the time. One more thing; I may be out of the woods as far as Josie's friends are concerned, but accidents do happen. Oliver's your resident geek, isn't he? Do you think he could get on to the Internet and find me some instructions about making a will, without my having to wait for an appointment with a solicitor?'

‘I think the danger to you may be past.'

‘Would you risk it, if you were me?'

She was silent. No, she didn't think she would.

He sighed. ‘Well, I suppose I'd better get dressed. Did you say there was some more soup going? Or perhaps some bread and cheese?'

Bea collected his mug and took it back upstairs, castigating herself. What on earth have I done now, offering to help Jeremy get Eunice out of his house? Haven't I enough on my plate, what with Ianthe and all? What ever am I going to say to the woman tomorrow? I'm glad Oliver's staying over, though I feel guilty about his giving up his time to help.

Dear Lord, put the right words in my mouth. Be my shield and buckler . . .

What on earth is a buckler, anyway?

Sunday afternoon

It was supposed to be a hot, quiet Sunday afternoon. Sunny, no clouds in the sky. The occasional buzz of a fly, or chirrup of a sparrow, were the only sounds you were supposed to hear. Perhaps the muted hum of traffic might be allowed? Yes, provided one didn't have to ease oneself off the garden chair and do something energetic such as mowing the lawn, or entertaining friends. Bea thought that even going for a walk in Kensington Gardens would be too much trouble.

Jeremy ate two pizzas, a banana and a nectarine, asked Oliver if he could find a will form for him to fill in, and promptly fell asleep on his bed. The one in the spare room.

Oliver went downstairs to help Maggie reorganize her office.

Bea stretched out on a recliner in the shade of the sycamore tree and tried not to think about anything. Supper was organized, sort of. She'd tried to work out what she'd say to Ianthe on the morrow and had come to the conclusion she'd have to wing it. She gave a passing thought to DI Durrell, unwillingly at his family barbecue. It was up to him to sort out the whole horrid mess around Josie's murder.

She drifted off into a doze, only to be awoken by Oliver saying there was a phone call for her. Bother. Couldn't he deal with it?

Apparently not. Someone wanted to meet her by the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens. An elderly woman, said Oliver. By name of Angie Butt. In half an hour, no police, no tape recorder.

‘Tell her to get lost. It's Sunday.'

‘She rang off.'

Angie. Angela Josephine Butt. Otherwise known as Josie? But Josie was dead. And if Josie were also Angie, which they'd assumed she was . . . Bea squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her forehead. Who was this new character who called herself ‘Angie Butt'? An elderly woman? There'd been no mention of an elderly woman in the case before.

Bea told herself to relax, go back to sleep. After thirty seconds she got up, found herself a sun hat, sun glasses, and checked that her mobile phone, camera and tape recorder were all in her handbag. Before she could leave the house, she went downstairs to alert Maggie and Oliver to what was going on.

Oliver had pinched one of the agency computers and was happily setting it up for Maggie's use.

What could she say to them? Should she warn them to ring the police if she wasn't back within half an hour? Ridiculous. What could happen to her in broad daylight in Kensington Gardens?

She said, ‘I'm going out for half an hour. Save me a piece of cake for tea.'

They both said, ‘Mm'. She left them to it.

The sun had baked the pavements to scorching point. She wore a loose, cap-sleeved silk top and cool linen trousers in her favourite caramel colour. Sandals, and a large-brimmed hat, which shaded her face nicely from the sun's rays. She walked through the public right of way into the Gardens and turned up the rise towards the Round Pond, where Peter Pan still reigned and where boys of all ages floated toy boats. She took several photos with her little camera.

There were plenty of families around but few elderly women, and only one of these was sitting by herself. This solitary woman was dozing on a bench, with her Zimmer frame before her. An aged panama hat was squashed down over scanty, dyed black hair. Large dark glasses covered much of her face, which was powdered white except for a slash of scarlet lipstick. She wore a long-sleeved blouse of indeterminate colour, with a chiffon scarf around the neck, a long skirt in the sort of beige which always looks as if it needs a wash, and heavy shoes. Wrinkled stockings.

‘Miss Angie Butt?' Bea sat down beside the woman, switching on the recording device in her handbag as she did so.

‘Mrs Abbot?' A cracked voice. But the ankles above the heavy shoes were slim with no sign of puffiness, and the hands on the Zimmer lacked the freckles of old age.

‘You wanted to speak to me?'

‘You are not quite what I'd imagined, Mrs Abbot.'

‘Or I, you. I assume you are the brains behind the Badger scam?'

‘And you are the brains which have kept Jeremy Waite alive?' The voice no longer cracked with age. The disguise was good, at first sight. But the woman was probably no older than Bea – maybe younger.

‘I've tried to look after him, yes. You do realize he had nothing to do with Josie's death?'

‘So I've been told. I would like to make it clear that I did not approve of the trashing of his flat, but strong feelings were involved.'

‘The man in the toupee is on your team?'

‘He says that you've earned his respect.'

‘I'm honoured. What about the driver of the van? Was he the photographer for your unit?'

‘He was.' The hands clutched at the Zimmer frame, then relaxed. ‘He's dead. But you know that. You saw it happen. You'd recognize his killer if you saw him again?'

‘I wish I could. I saw a vague figure, more of a shadow, leave the van and disappear. A man, I think. Big, well built, clad in dark clothes. Trainers. I think he was wearing gloves. What did you do with the body?'

‘We torched the van and left it where it will be found.'

‘With the body in it?' Bea winced.

‘What else could we do? It will pass as an accident. The wiring was defective – we saw to that. The owner of the van will collect the insurance, and the body will be given a proper burial.'

‘You could have informed the police.'

‘Hah!' A sufficient reply.

Bea settled herself. ‘So, you wanted to see me?'

The woman turned her head to watch Bea. ‘Do you have any idea who's doing this to us? First Josie, and then our photographer?'

Bea shook her head. ‘You don't know, either?'

‘I don't. It's disconcerting.'

‘I suppose it must be. Who's next for the chop? Mr Toupee, or you?'

‘A good question. Another question would be: how did they know where we'd be last night?'

‘I'm beginning to wonder if Mr Jason of Jason's Place may have been supplying information to both sides.'

A sigh. ‘Yes. That could well be it. But how did they know where Josie was to be found on the night she died?'

‘Someone was following her, perhaps?'

‘That was Mr Toupee, as you call him. Josie had received a phone call from a man with a deep voice saying he'd got her in his sights. She was frightened, said she wanted to get out of London for a while. I was out of town or I'd have calmed her down. She was in such a state that she ran out into the street, which was the last thing she should have done. My friend went after her to make sure she was all right. He overheard her ringing Jeremy Waite, asking to meet him. And then he lost her. So we assumed—'

‘Jeremy cut the phone call as soon as he realized who was trying to contact him, and before she could tell him where she was.'

‘She was fond of him, the silly thing. I suppose she thought he might help her, give her some money to get away.'

‘He's a genuinely good man, and he might well have helped her if only she'd managed to get him to listen to her.'

A sigh. ‘She didn't want to go through with the scam for him, you know. But we'd arranged—'

‘A contract. You'd agreed to set him up, and been paid for it? By his wife, I assume.'

‘We won't discuss that, if you please.'

‘Very well. But, I think it would be only fair if you got whoever it was to back down. Jeremy's been cleared by the police but has lost his job, been threatened with divorce and forced to leave his house. Tell the person concerned that they can have their divorce, but he wants his house back.'

‘I can't do that.'

‘Oh, I think you can. You of all people know how rumour can destroy someone's reputation. If a rumour got around that she'd set her husband up, don't you think that would do considerable damage to her earning ability? Try her with that.'

‘Hah.' The woman half lifted her Zimmer, then replaced it. ‘About Josie's death. Have the police told you anything which might help, such as who frightened her on the phone? If we knew that, we might have some idea who to look out for, and we could take defensive action.'

Bea shook her head. ‘I don't know. Why don't you disappear for a while?'

‘We have to make a living.'

‘By extortion?'

The woman laughed. ‘Some men are only too willing to play away, and only too eager to pay up afterwards. What's wrong with that?'

‘Arranging for a man to have extramarital sex with a young girl is entrapment, and demanding money afterwards is blackmail. The last I heard, you can spend time in jail for that.'

A shrug. ‘Who's going to complain to the police? You think one of Josie's men has turned on us?'