False Step (12 page)

‘You think she won't pay for work done?'

‘I may have to eat my words but … yes, that's exactly what I do think. There's no red dress here. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes … Kasia saw it, too. And Florrie. We can't all have been seeing things.'

‘Damaris took the dress away, because … well, she didn't like his cross-dressing and wanted to protect his memory.' He ran his hands over the mahogany. ‘If you lived in such a house with all this unusual furniture, it would influence the way you thought about the rest of the world, don't you think? Make you think yourself something separate, different. I wouldn't mind something like this when I get older.'

Bea sneezed. ‘Kasia couldn't have cleaned so well up here. Dust!'

‘Not dust.' Oliver sniffed the air. ‘Aftershave?' He bent to sniff the counterpane. ‘It's on this.' He sniffed again. His foot kicked against something under the bed. He disappeared from sight, to retrieve a large cardboard box with the name of a theatrical costumier on it. ‘All together now … bingo!'

He took off the lid, to reveal the voluminous scarlet and gold dress Bea had seen lying over the body. Presumably Damaris had put it away to be returned to the hire company.

Bea stared at it, and then at Oliver.

‘Oh no you don't!' said Oliver, backing away. ‘I am not going to lie down on that bed, not for a hundred pounds.'

Bea grinned. ‘Bite the bullet. Turn the pillow over, remove the counterpane, and do it. Oh, and take your shoes off first.'

Grumbling, Oliver did as he was told. Bea shook out the dress, trying not to show how much it repelled her to touch its slippery surface, and floated it down over Oliver's body.

When the dress was up to his neck, his toes just about peeped out of the bottom of the skirt.

Oliver yelped, and sat upright, breathing fast. ‘Look, I can't …'

‘No, it's all right. I know you can't.' She caught the dress up, folded it as it had been before, and took the lid off the box. Under a piece of tissue paper, she caught a glimpse of something else red. She twitched the paper aside to reveal a pair of red, sequinned shoes. Somewhere at the back of her head a little voice said, ‘It was a mistake, leaving them out for everyone to see.'

Nonsense! She laid the dress carefully into the box, and replaced the lid.

Oliver put his own shoes on again. ‘So what did that prove?'

Bea rubbed her forehead. ‘Nothing, I suppose, except that I'm a sadist, and you're a star. I thought I had an idea, and I suppose … no, I must have been mistaken. Let's get on with the inventory, shall we?'

Another half-hour, and they had finished upstairs and were about to pack up for the day when they heard the front doorbell peal. Oliver looked out of the window, and started to laugh.

‘You remember I was wondering why Damaris wanted the inventory done, rather than call in a valuer? Well, there's a drive-it-yourself van down below, and I imagine that must be the famous Gladys-cum-Goldie leaning on the doorbell. Come to collect some more trophies from her marriage?'

Bea joined him at the window. The rain had stopped but the road still gleamed wet. ‘We don't need to answer the bell.'

‘She'll see there's someone in. We've left all the lights on downstairs. She wouldn't still have a key, would she?'

‘I hope not. I'd better alert Damaris.'

‘Where's your phone? You left it downstairs after tea, didn't you? She'll see you as you cross the hall. Uh-oh, she's got her mobile out. Who's she phoning? Hang about, there's a big bloke down there with her. The sort of no-neck bruiser who you see on the door at nightclubs.'

‘What do you know about nightclubs?'

‘One of my friends took me once. Don't look like that! I am nearly nineteen, you know.'

‘I know.' They watched, fascinated, as Goldie gesticulated her way through a phone call. She put the phone away, looking up at the façade of the house. Oliver and Bea ducked.

‘This is ridiculous,' said Bea. ‘We've every right to be here, and she hasn't. I'm going down to talk to her.'

‘Put the chain on the door first. I'm not up to the weight of her companion.'

‘I'll phone Damaris before I speak to her.' Bea sailed down the stairs and across the hall, ignoring the thumps and bell peals. She found her mobile and rang Damaris's number.

A young voice answered the phone; a teenage boy? He said his mum was at work. Bea said it was important, and might she have his mum's number at work, please. Young voice said he wasn't allowed to do that. His tone indicated that he couldn't care less.

‘Listen to me, young man,' said Bea, ‘your mother asked me to make an inventory at her stepfather's house, and one of his ex-wives has appeared with a drive-it-yourself van and wants to come in. Shall I call the police, or will you give me your mother's mobile phone number?'

‘Wow! Really?' He was faintly amused. ‘All right, then. Got a pencil?'

She hadn't. She set her teeth. Why hadn't she got a pencil? She saw that Oliver was poised with a pen to take down the number. She repeated it aloud, as it was given to her. Said, ‘Thanks!' and rang off. By which time Oliver was punching numbers into the landline phone. He got through and handed the phone to Bea.

A face appeared at the window. Goldie, furious!

‘Mrs Frasier?' Bea turned away from the window. ‘Bea Abbot here. A crisis.' She explained what was happening, and was relieved when Damaris said she'd get permission to leave and come straight around.

‘That's it, then,' said Bea, setting the phone down. ‘She's on her way. Cavalry to the rescue. But if that man doesn't stop pounding on the door, he'll break it down. I think I'll go and threaten him with instant death if he doesn't stop, or we'll have the neighbours round, complaining.'

‘Don't forget to put the chain on.'

She didn't need to be told. She put the chain on, and opened the door a crack.

‘Yes?'

Goldie tried to push the door open, and failed. ‘You … you let me in, now!'

‘Mrs Frasier asked me to hold the fort till she gets here, which won't be long.'

Goldie's blood pressure was climbing. ‘You know who I am! Now, take the chain off, this minute!'

‘Sorry. My instructions—'

‘I don't give a—'

‘Let me give the door a shove!'

Bea stiffened her back. Muttering to Oliver that he should close the door behind her, she said, ‘Hold on a minute,' took the chain off, stepped outside, and pulled the door to behind her. ‘If you don't stop this right now, my assistant will call the police!'

‘What?'

Ten seconds, while nothing was heard but a lot of heavy breathing.

An elderly man with a stick had been walking an equally ancient dog on the other side of the road. Spotting trouble, he came to a halt. ‘Want some help, missus?'

‘Thank you, no,' said Bea, trying to smile at him and almost succeeding. One push from the heavyweight and the elderly man would end up in hospital. ‘These people are just leaving. Apologies for the noise. It won't happen again.'

The elderly man had a face like a bloodhound, all droops and sags. But he didn't lack for courage. ‘Is Matthew all right? Haven't seen him around for a couple of days.'

‘I'm afraid he passed away,' said Bea, wondering if this were the right thing to say or not. ‘This lady is one of his ex-wives. I'm doing an inventory for his stepdaughter, who's inherited everything, and my instructions are not to let anyone else in.'

Elderly man shuffled across the road towards them. ‘What was it? A stroke? I never thought he'd go before me. The name's Douglas, at number five. Used to make up a four at bridge, now and then. Just wait till I tell the wife.' He eyed Goldie's short, tight skirt, and the heavyweight's look of bafflement. Neither seemed to appeal, for instead of making off, he looped his stick and the pug's lead around his wrist, leaned against the wall of the house, and took out a tin of tobacco. His hands shook – Parkinson's? – but his intentions were clear. He was not moving.

The heavyweight swung back to Goldie, looking for instructions.

Goldie flapped eyelashes, turning herself from Amazon into Goldilocks. Well, that was the intention, anyway. Breathily, innocence shining out of blue, blue orbs, Goldie said, ‘I only came to fetch what's mine. A few little trinkets …'

‘In that big van?' Bea was not impressed.

‘A dear little table with fluted edges, a couple of matching chairs with tapestry seats and backs. Sentimental value, only. Oh, and a watercolour that I bought my dear husband when we were on honeymoon in Scotland. That's all. And of course the silver salver that matches my sweet little silver jug. I know I ought to have mentioned it before, but I was in shock. You understand, don't you?'

A piecrust table, a couple of Jacobean chairs, a Victorian watercolour by a named artist and a solid silver salver.
Humph
, thought Bea.
Does she think I'm a moron? That lot must be worth ten thousand if a penny.
Bea put on a sunny smile. ‘I'm sure Mrs Frasier will be delighted to hear from you, and if you can prove what you say, I'm sure she'll be willing to let you have the things you asked for. But I'm afraid I have no authority to let you take anything away from the house.'

‘Hear, hear!' said the elderly but courageous Mr Douglas from number five.

The heavyweight rolled his shoulders. ‘You want I bust the door in?'

‘No, no,' said Goldie, maintaining her smile with an effort. ‘I'm sure this, um, woman, is right, and my stepdaughter will let me have my little bits and pieces. Another day.'

‘Hear, hear!' Mr Douglas had at last succeeded in rolling himself a cigarette. He stuck it between his lips and sought in his pockets for a match. Or a lighter. His pug was resigned to the wait, apparently, for he was now sitting on his master's foot.

‘What we do now?' asked the heavyweight.

‘You go home,' said Bea, still smiling sweetly. ‘And wait to hear from Mrs Frasier. I shall certainly give her your message, as soon as she arrives.'

Goldie's eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I shan't forget how horrid you've been to me. As if I wasn't suffering enough from the death of my dear Matthew! Now this! It would have been such a consolation to have something of his to remember him by.'

‘Bravo!' Mr Douglas clapped his hands together, slowly. ‘Been on the boards, have we?'

‘Oh, you … drop dead, you!' Goldie swung herself up into the cab of the van, motioning her heavyweight to follow suit. With a grinding of gears, the van moved slowly down the street and away.

‘Hah!' said the elderly gent, cigarette alight, flourishing his stick. ‘That's given me quite an appetite for my tea. Wait till I tell the wife. Any time you want help repelling boarders, Mrs Abbot, you let me know, right?'

‘You know me?'

‘You found us a housekeeper when my wife wasn't able to get about so much. Dudley Douglas. Remember?'

‘Of course!' His wife had been confined to a wheelchair and he'd been her sole carer. He'd been an upright, soldierly figure then. Four years ago? More? He was mere skin and bones now, but still a force to be reckoned with. ‘I'm very grateful, Mr Douglas. Believe me.'

‘Hah! The wife will have my guts for garters if I'm late for tea. Have a good day, as they say …' He went off, muttering to himself, the pug waddling after him. ‘Silly thing to say, “Have a good day” …'

Oliver opened the door to let Bea back into the house. ‘That was nasty. Are you all right?'

No, she wasn't all right. How could she be? She was shaking. ‘Yes, of course. What people will do …! I suppose we'd better ring Mrs Frasier and tell her the danger's past. I suggest that after that we pack up for the day. I don't know about you, but I've had enough.'

‘Plus Maggie's doing us a big dish of lasagne for supper.'

‘I'm out for supper with Max. We'll have to see what else Maggie can rustle up for you.' She rang Mrs Frasier, who was halfway along Kensington High Street by that time, and not at all pleased to have been called away from work on a false alarm.

‘And thank you, too,' said Bea, as the call terminated. ‘Time to go home, Oliver. Is everything off, lights, central heating, back door locked? This house is beginning to give me the willies. The sooner we're out of here now, the better.'

Oliver followed her outside.

‘That woman at the agency is rubbish! Wish I'd gone somewhere else.'

‘Is she very expensive? The bills …!'

‘No, I beat her down to a reasonable fee. She called me out on a false alarm. Step number two had turned up with a van to take her pick of the valuables, and the Abbot woman didn't know how to cope. Honestly!'

Alarm in her voice. ‘Did she get away with much?'

‘Well, no. Changed her mind and went off without any trouble. Only, I had to wait for the manageress to come back and practically go on my knees to get the rest of the afternoon off … and then the agency woman rang back to say it was all right. Made me look such a fool.'

‘That's a bit of a worry. I mean, if Goldie came back and insisted, she could clear the house. Has the agency woman still got keys? Can she be trusted not to let anyone else in?'

Silence. ‘You've got a point, there. She said she'd let me have the inventory tomorrow or the day after. I'll get her to drop the keys in at the same time.'

‘Or, I could pick them up from her at the house. I'll need a copy of the inventory, anyway.'

‘Why? I said we'd split everything down the middle, and so we will.'

‘I'd rather be safe than sorry. How much more is there for her to do?'