False Step (2 page)

She set her handbag down on a nearby table, and dropped into an elderly Chesterfield chair which had seen much use in its time. Its rounded arms and thick cushions enfolded her in comfortable fashion. The left-hand arm was stained; coffee, probably. Or dirt from the garden. She thought of its dead owner, who would never sit in his chair again, and nearly found another, but didn't. He was past caring, and she wasn't going to stand up for an hour, or however long it took.

The room was large and oddly shaped with unexpected recesses and niches. It had character. She decided she rather liked it. But oh, for a cup of coffee!

She got out her mobile phone and rang home. Oliver must deal with the morning's post himself. The phone rang and rang, and it wasn't Oliver who answered it, but happy-go-lucky Maggie.

‘Hi, Mrs Abbot. Did you want Oliver? He's having a row with the electrician, something to do with the computers. I don't know what, but I do know I can't sort it. Will you be back for lunch? I thought I'd make a chicken and mushroom pie with the leftovers from the roast last night. Will that do you?'

‘Can you take a message, Maggie? Tell Oliver I'm held up here but he can reach me on my mobile if anything happens. Don't bother with anything else. I may be some time so we'll have the chicken pie tonight, right?'

‘Oh, Mrs Abbot, before you go, there was something Oliver said before he disappeared downstairs … now, what was it? Oh, I know. He said you'd turned your mobile off and Mr Max had rung, wanting to speak to you, but he's going to ring back later. I think that's everything.'

Now what did her self-important – though of course very much loved – son want? Max was inclined to think he could call on her to sort out every trivial little crease in the rose petal of his life, despite having successfully managed to get into Parliament and to marry a blonde trophy of a wife. Max could wait.

Bea left her mobile switched on, just in case.

Somewhere in her files at the office – now stowed in piles around her living room – there was a leaflet telling you what to do when a person died. She must look it out sometime. But Florrie seemed to have taken the right steps, so she might as well relax. Try the daughter every half-hour till she answered. Make herself at home.

She took off her jacket and went in search of a cup of coffee. A door at the end of the room let her through into a modern kitchen, where French windows gave on to a large, flagstoned patio. There was no garden as the patio was enclosed by the backs and sides of other houses, but the walls had been painted apricot, a wrought-iron Edwardian bench sat on the tiled floor and there was an elegant sufficiency of plants sitting around in tubs. Scarlet geraniums cascaded from pots on the walls. The geraniums were still in full flower even though it was now autumn. In that sheltered position, they might well survive the winter.

There were no breakfast dishes in the sink; the man must have died some time in the night.

A hoover had been left half in and half out of a broom cupboard. Bea shook her head. Florrie should have put that away before she panicked and rang for help.

Bea filled the kettle and stood admiring the pretty patio till it boiled. Tea bags were on the counter, as were tins of sugar and coffee. Milk – she sniffed at it to make sure it was fresh – in the well-filled fridge. She made herself a cup of instant, pushing aside an unwashed mug half full of cold coffee. Florrie must have had a drink after all, before she went upstairs and found the corpse.

Odd, that. Florrie never usually stopped for a coffee break. She toted her own flask of special tea around with her, and occasionally sipped from that. So whose coffee mug was that on the side?

Oh, it must have been Florrie who'd had it. She'd been in shock. Hadn't known quite what she was doing. Or maybe it had been a late night cuppa for the man upstairs. Only …

Bea took her coffee into the sitting room and drank it, letting her eyes rove around. The furniture in here was not new, not valuable antique, but anything up to a hundred years old and in good condition. There was that quintessential piece of twentieth century furniture, an upright piano, in one corner of the room – if you could call it a corner when there were only angles between walls. There were William Morris tiles around a simulated log gas fire. The carpet was one of those all-over Turkish patterned affairs that didn't show the dirt but there was a distinctive trail of cigarette ash on the floor by the fireplace, although there was no ashtray in sight.

Ah, yes. One was on the floor under a Parker Knoll chair, upholstered in a good quality, but rather worn moquette. 1960s style. Bea sniffed the air. Was that a trace of cigarettes she could smell? Had the man been a smoker? Two cigarette butts, no lipstick. As the man of the house would presumably sit in the big Chesterfield, the man who'd sat in the Parker Knoll chair opposite would have been a visitor.

He was going to get a shock when he discovered what had happened, wasn't he?

There were some faded photographs on the mantelpiece, family pictures, snapshots. Two faded pictures of elderly people – presumably his parents? – and some snapshots of a nice-looking fair-haired man with friends and family. No dust. Or hardly any. The television set was not new but still in use to judge by a copy of the current
Radio Times
sitting on top of it.

There was a well-filled rack of DVDs and CDs nearby and a pair of speakers which were rather too large and modern to blend into their surroundings. Music, presumably, had been important to the occupant. And books, lots of them. Mostly travellers' tales. Sea stories. A lot of them looked Victorian and might or might not be valuable.

A china cabinet held some porcelain figures which again were not new, but might fetch a good price at auction. Everything was slightly shabby. Dated, but comfortable.

An elderly gentleman, then? Possibly living with inherited furniture?

Bea looked at her watch. Time was passing. She tried the daughter's number again; still no reply. She finished her cup of coffee and thought she might like to visit the loo, which meant finding a bathroom. She explored the hall – no loo. She didn't really feel like going upstairs but needs must, even if it did feel as if she were invading the dead man's privacy. Which was absurd, of course.

The house was very quiet.

She held on to the banister, as the stairs curled up to the first floor. This was a surprisingly large house for its narrow frontage; an estate agent might describe it as ‘characterful, needing some modernization'. The ceilings were low, and there probably wasn't a straight wall or right angle anywhere.

On the first floor landing sat a large plastic box containing cleaning materials, with several aerosols sticking out of it. Florrie must have brought it upstairs meaning to do the bathroom and on discovering the corpse, had forgotten to remove it.

The room straight ahead was a double bedroom, the window overlooking the patio below. More magnolia paint, cupboards built into the wall. Light and airy, Laura Ashley and Sanderson furnishings. A guest bedroom, not often used by the look of it.

The door to the master bedroom was on the right. It was ajar, but Bea avoided looking at it as she went into the bathroom on the left. Again, everything was dated, but functioned. There was an old-fashioned, claw-footed bath but the owner had installed a shower. Towels had been thrust at the rail, wedged in rather than folded and hanging free. There was a noticeable rim around the bath and one around the washbasin as well. The soap was dry.

Bea washed her hands, thinking it was a shame that Florrie hadn't got around to cleaning the bathroom before she discovered the body. A selfish thought, perhaps.

The stairs went on upwards and Bea, bored with waiting, ascended them up to the second floor. Another double bedroom, also painted in magnolia, furnishings ditto. A small bathroom. Then came a tiny square room which contained nothing but garden furniture, including a table and a parasol. This room's windows were barred. There was a locked door, whose window was also barred, which led out on to the roof garden. Presumably the bars were to protect against burglars getting in over the rooftops. Sensible.

Bea peered out of the window. The roof garden was laid out with apricot tiles on the floor, more tubs, and a hammock shrouded against wind and rain. The sun was out, for a miracle. The rooftop must be a regular sun trap in the summer.

Oh well. What now? She wished she'd brought something with her to read. Perhaps she'd borrow a book from the shelves below while she was waiting.

She went down to the ground floor and then, having nothing better to do, continued down into the basement. Opening a door at the bottom of the stairs, she got the shock of her life, as a ghostly figure swam out of the darkness to meet her.

She pulled the door shut and fell back, hand to heart. Who …? What …?

There wasn't anyone else in the house, was there?

Ridiculous! She'd have heard, if there had been.

Dear Lord, from ghosties and gremlins and things that go bump in the night, please deliver us.
Or words to that effect. She couldn't remember exactly how the prayer went, but the sentiment was spot on.
Dear Lord, deliver us.

Calming her breathing, she told herself that what she'd seen was just a trick of the light. There was nobody else there. Full stop.

She thought of going back upstairs and waiting till the daughter could be contacted. She shouldn't have explored, anyway. It was not right.

She took a deep breath, pushed the door open and called out, ‘Hello there?'

Silence.

The ghostly figure was still there, one hand holding open the door, facing her. It was dressed in a pale-grey trouser suit, and had short, ash-blonde hair. In other words, she was looking at herself in a mirror! The relief was so great that she sagged at the knees. She told herself that this was all very amusing and some time or other it would make a good story.

The room was in darkness. There ought to have been a window in it, because she had noticed a light well for the basement when she arrived. She found a light switch and shut her eyes momentarily as glaring neon strips came on overhead.

Whatever she'd expected – a playroom with billiard table, a junk room? – it wasn't this. The window had been blacked out, and all around were wardrobes and cupboards, some of metal, some of wood. She took one step more into the basement and recoiled again, for every wardrobe door had a mirror, and everywhere she looked, she saw herself. The room was cavernous and she experienced a moment of disorientation.

She shaded her eyes against the dazzling strip lights. Opposite was an up-to-the-minute computer set-up, with an adjustable typing chair in front of it. Laptop, printer, fax, telephone … everything that a man might need to run a small business. A set of large speakers, a ‘desk' such as DJs use, with microphone, etc. Had the man been in the music business?

Nearby was a mirror surrounded by light bulbs with a wide ledge under it, and a stool in front. An old-fashioned tin box sat on the ledge, next to a box of tissues. She'd seen something like that before, somewhere. But where?

What was this place? As she stepped forward, a floorboard shifted, and one of the mirrored doors swung open. A sunburst of colour met her eyes. And glitter. Women's clothes, not men's.

What …?

She pulled open the door of the nearest cupboard, to reveal ranks of shoes in a large size. The following cupboard was dedicated to wigs of all colours and lengths; some on stands, others on what looked like balloons.

She realized that the ‘desk' was for theatrical make-up. The box would contain the tools of his trade, perhaps.

Whatever had been going on here?

There was one way to find out. She put her head out of the door to listen for the noises of someone arriving, but there was nothing. She told herself that curiosity killed the cat, but yes, she was curious. Who wouldn't be?

She went to the computer desk and pulled out drawers till she found some business cards. All had ‘Magnificent Millie' written on them. A woman? Bea had formed the impression that Florrie's client had been male. Whatever was going on here? Ah, underneath the flourish of the words ‘Magnificent Millie' was some small print. ‘Matthew Kent', followed by a phone number, website and email address. Was Matthew Kent the same person as Magnificent Millie? Did he do a drag act for the clubs, perhaps?

Bea pocketed a card, switched off the lights, shut the door to the basement, and climbed the stairs to the first floor, to the master bedroom. She really must catch a glimpse of the man or woman who had owned all this. Was he a transvestite, perhaps? Getting his kicks out of dressing as a woman?

She pushed the door of the main bedroom open but all was dark within, so she groped for a light switch … and took a hasty step back.

In front of an enormous old mahogany bed were a pair of shoes such as Bea had never seen out of the theatre or cinema. They reminded her of Dorothy's shoes in
The Wizard of Oz
. They were bright red, with a small heel. They were covered with sequins and finished off with stiff bows, also in red.

Bea blinked. Was she really seeing what she was seeing?

She lifted her eyes to a tide of scarlet and gold. Spread over the bed was a travesty of a woman's eighteenth-century costume in red and gold. The overskirt was of scarlet satin, frilled, ruched and garnished with gold bows. The padded petticoat was of gold silk, trellised with black ribbon. The bodice was of scarlet satin, low-cut in front with sleeves to the elbow, finished with falls of lace.

It reminded Bea of the costume for the Pantomime Dame in the last act, where he-cum-she descends the stairs to thunderous applause from the audience. It covered the body on the bed almost completely. The corpse wasn't actually wearing it, but was covered by it, as it were by a blanket.

Was it a man, or a woman? If it was a man, then he'd been made up to look like a woman, with lipstick and rouge, eye shadow and grotesquely painted-on eyebrows. A wide hairband such as tennis players wear was around his or her head, almost completely covering the hair, waiting for the wig to be fitted. The wig was still on a stand beside the bed.