False Alarm (11 page)

‘In view of her liking for bright clothing . . . a peacock?'

Lady O managed to laugh almost naturally. Then sobered. ‘Your Oliver, now. He's got the right kind of mind.'

‘He helped you complete the crossword today?'

‘With his mind on his meeting with Lucas. I could have warned him that my husband eats bright young things for breakfast, but he'll have to find it out for himself. Anyway, even if Lucas didn't want him for his own purposes, Oliver wouldn't do for me. I won't have anyone gossiping about me and a young man.'

It was Bea's turn to smile. ‘No toy boys?'

Another laugh, and this time it was natural. ‘No toy boys. And no other suitor waiting in the wings. Lucas is more than enough for me. Shall we forget the diet and share a pizza, perhaps?'

Bea nodded. As Lady O rang in her order, Bea wondered exactly how long Lucas intended to leave his wife in limbo. The grounds for his doing so seemed, well, flimsy to Bea. Surely if he loved her, he'd have removed her to a place of safety before now? But then; successful, ambitious men often put their wives second to their work. And if he had another woman in his sights . . . Oh dear.

How was Oliver getting on at Vicori House? Would Lucas really offer Oliver a job? Would it be right to stand in his way . . . even supposing that it were possible to do so?

The pizza came. Crispy and tasty. They ate at a table below the Freud portrait.

Bea refused coffee, looking at her watch. ‘It's a Friday afternoon, and I have a business to run, so if you will give me a list of who was at your bridge party, I'll be on my way.'

Lady O shivered. ‘I'll write it out for you later this afternoon. Do you really have to go so soon?'

‘When I get back to the agency, I'll sort out someone to come round to look after you for a while. Meanwhile, there's one person in the building whom I think you can rely on, and that's Professor Jacobsen. He knew his cat was in the habit of visiting you, and he wouldn't have put the animal in danger, would he? Was he a member of your bridge party?'

‘He doesn't always come, but he was there this time. He doesn't approve of me. I've heard him refer to me as a “blonde bimbo” as if I were still sixteen and not knocking fifty. Tell the truth, he's the one person in the flats who scares me. He's a scholar of the old school. I know I ought to have gone down and told him when I found Momi, but I was so shaken that I . . . I put it off. And then I lied when he asked me if I'd seen his cat and now . . . it's just too difficult. I'll get the caretaker to dispose of the body.'

‘No, you won't. You'll invite the Professor to come up here, and you will turn on the charm and confide in him about the terrible strain you're under, and then you'll confess that you found Momi dead, and cry a little, and look up at him, all poor little me, and of course you'll offer to buy him a replacement pedigree cat. Right?'

Lady O looked down at her hands and then up at Bea. ‘Must I?'

‘You know it's the right thing to do. Presumably he's too old to make your husband jealous, and he's bright enough to act as your bodyguard till we can get a professional in place for you.'

Lady O nodded. ‘You're right, of course. But perhaps not today. Maggie said she'd come back this evening and—'

Bea got to her feet. ‘You need company this afternoon, and if you play your cards right, you can keep him here till Maggie arrives or I find someone to look after you.' She tucked herself into her coat. ‘I'm going downstairs now to knock on his door, and if he's in I'll ask him to call on you straight away. If he's out, I'll put a note under his door, asking him to phone you, and you can invite him up. Lock the door after me, and make sure he identifies himself when he comes.'

She left Lady O crumpling a handkerchief in her fingers, with tears starting out on her cheeks. It made Bea feel a bully, but she had to be cruel to be kind, or she'd be there all day. Now, for the Professor . . .

T
he afternoon was growing dark. Rain still spat at the windows as she made her way down the stairs. The merry sounds of workmen continued to come from flat number twelve but there was neither light nor sound at number thirteen. Correction; there was no number thirteen. Professor Jacobsen had altered his flat number to twelve A.

Bea knocked, and then rang the doorbell.

‘Hang on a moment!' A man's voice; tetchy but not cracked with age. A slither of curtain rings as a heavy porte cochère was drawn back. A spyhole was consulted. A key turned in a lock. The door opened a crack. On a chain.

‘Professor Jacobsen?'

‘What's it to you, young lady?'

Bea almost giggled. It was some years since she'd been called a ‘young' lady.

She caught a glimpse of a tall, thin man through the narrow opening. A coxcomb of white hair, shaggy eyebrows over a beaky nose, long upper lip, clean-shaven. Lively, light-grey eyes.

‘Bea Abbot, Mrs. Called in by Lady Ossett, who has . . . who is . . .'

‘What's the bimbo been up to now?' A dismissive tone.

‘She's no bimbo, and someone's trying to scare her to death.'

‘She probably caught a glimpse of a mouse.'

‘A dead
mouse
wouldn't faze her.'

Pause.

The door closed, the chain was taken off, and the door reopened. ‘You used the word “dead”?'

‘She wonders if you would be so kind as to pay her a visit this afternoon. That is, if you are not otherwise engaged.'

He grunted. Heavy-duty sweater and jeans, both clean. Velcroed trainers, also clean. He was a very clean, old – no, perhaps not quite so old – gentleman. He had the faintly Edwardian look Bea associated with successful private school headmasters. Authority, knowledge and a pragmatic outlook on a less than perfect world.

‘I'm busy. More than she is. I compile crossword puzzles for a living.'

‘Really? Did you know she has a magic eye for anagrams?'

A hard stare. ‘For the tabloids?'

‘The
Times
.'

‘Ah. You used the word “dead”?'

‘Yes. She needs help, and you're the only person in the flats whom she can trust.'

He thought about that. His jaw worked. ‘Momi.'

‘Yes. Will you help?'

‘That husband of hers. There's a rumour that he's left her?'

‘I'm really not sure what's going on there.'

‘Stupid girl,' he said, shaking his head. Did he mean Lady O or Bea? It was an advance on ‘bimbo', anyway. ‘Momi,' he said, and his eyes took on a faraway look. Then he nodded. ‘What did you say your name was?'

‘My card.' She handed one over.

He inspected it and said, ‘I'll turn off the computer and go up there straight away.' He closed the door in her face, and she rang the bell for the lift.

The lift failed to arrive. Bea rang the bell again. Perhaps someone was already using it? Yes, she could hear the faint whirr of its machinery. Bea looked at her watch. She really must get back to the office. She considered walking down the stairs. Six flights. Ugh.

The sound of an altercation rose up the well of the staircase. A confusion of voices. Perhaps two people were arguing over who should use the lift next?

Bea started to walk down the stairs. Past the flats of Carrie Kempton and Tariq she went. Down and down. Pause for breath, and down again. The shouting below intensified as she passed the flats for Lucy Emerson and the Muslim family. Surely Lucy would have come out of her flat to see what was happening, if she were at home? She must be out.

‘You bastard!' A man's voice. From a couple of storeys down.

A girl, screaming, ‘No, no! Get off me!'

Bea raised her eyebrows. Down another flight. The woman in the fake fur coat was standing by the door to the lift. Mahogany red hair, superb high-heeled boots, another huge handbag. Carmela Lessbury, lady of leisure. She took one look at Bea and turned her shoulder.

There was a shriek from the girl below, quickly broken off. Someone being attacked? Mugged? Whatever was going on?

Bea said to Carmela's back, ‘Yes, I've been visiting Lady Ossett, and yes, I know something very odd is going on in this building. Who is it in trouble this time?'

Carmela didn't react, so Bea continued down the stairs. The sounds of distress below increased. A man's voice threatened someone . . . the girl? ‘You filthy whore! If I have to choke the truth out of you, I'll—'

‘You bastard! Leave her alone!'

Bea hastened her steps. She could hear Carmela descending after her. Also curious, but not willing to get involved?

A man cried out, ‘Aaargh!'

Had the girl kicked her attacker where it would hurt most? Good for her.

A heavy door clanged shut. The front door?

So much noise! It was a wonder that the caretaker hadn't turned up to tell them off. Perhaps it would be a good idea to ask why he hadn't done so.

Bea rounded the last corner and almost fell over a young man with a shaved head who was lying, doubled over, on the bottom step. He didn't look particularly clean. T-shirt and jeans, no socks or shoes. Moaning noises.

A similarly disarranged young woman was holding on to the newel post. Dark hair all over the place, livid marks on her arms, a torn T-shirt and jeans. She was wearing boots whose pointed toes had probably managed to connect with the tenderest part of the male and thus ended the fight.

The lift door was closed.

The front door to flat number two was open.

Now who lived in that flat? Lucy had said it was ‘Daddy's little girl and her bit on the side'.

Carrie had added, ‘Daddy has pots of money but his daughter lacks manners and will probably kill herself with alcohol or drugs before she's thirty.'

Lucy had the last word, as usual. ‘She hangs around with a crowd . . . Not our sort, dear. We don't speak except to say “good morning”, but they don't even say “good morning” back. And the language they use is quite shocking!'

As usual, the two ladies had summed up the situation rather well. Bea took out her mobile phone. ‘I'll call the police, shall I?'

The girl threw back her hair. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and was angry enough to spit tacks. ‘Sod off, whoever you are!'

‘No police,' said Carmela, speaking from behind Bea.

‘My name,' said Bea, ‘is Mrs Abbot. Sir Lucas Ossett has asked me to find out exactly what is going on here. I can see you two young people have been fighting. You have a choice; either I ring the police or you invite me into your flat and tell me what's going on.'

Would the bluff work? She had no right to threaten them with the police, who probably wouldn't interfere in a brawl on private property, anyway.

The young man shuffled to his feet, still bent over, one hand holding his nose and the other on his crotch. ‘I'be bleeging.' And bleeding he certainly was.

‘Serve you bloody well right,' said the girl. She put two fingers up to Bea. ‘You can sod off, you old crone.'

From ‘young lady' to ‘old crone' in ten minutes. Oh well.

Bea pushed the door to their flat wide and walked in. The layout would be identical with that of Mrs Emerson's flat above, but it was a world apart – not only because it was furnished in the latest modern style with blinds at the windows, chunky black and white furniture and stripped floorboards – but also because it hadn't been visited by a cleaner for some time. Takeaway boxes, newspapers, beer cans and empty bottles were on every surface, and the air was laden with cigarette smoke.

Bea opened windows and found the kitchen. It sank. Ugh. Least said.

Would the bathroom be any better? Marginally. She took the toilet roll and a glass of cold water back to the living room, where the young man was standing, hands over his nose, swaying, not sure what to do with himself. The girl, meanwhile, had turfed some magazines off an armchair and had thrown herself back on to it, sulky mouth set to fire off another set of expletives.

Carmela was obviously not going to help. She hovered in the shadows by the doorway, cuddling her enormous handbag.

‘Sit!' Bea gestured the young man to sit down and, surprisingly, he obeyed her. He put his head forward; she slapped a wodge of wet tissue under his nose and instructed him to hold it there and not move.

‘Now,' said Bea. ‘How many of these impertinent phone calls have you had?'

The girl gaped. ‘What? How did you know?'

‘Among other irritating things that have been going on here, I was told that some call girls' cards had been left in letter-boxes. My guess is that someone has not only put cards through your letter box, but has been giving them out with your phone number on them.'

‘Dod odley—' started the boy.

‘Oh, shut up,' said the girl. ‘Silly phone calls I can deal with. But that man who's just gone had somehow managed to get my address. He turned up here wanting Miss Whiplash and wouldn't take “no” for an answer. Connor here tried to throw him out and got more than he bargained for.' She turned her stormy face to Carmela. ‘I always thought the call girl cards were intended to embarrass
you
.'

‘I thought they were, too,' said Carmela, stroking the soft leather of her handbag with long-nailed fingers. ‘I did get a number of phone calls so I got rid of my landline and changed my mobile phone. That stopped it.'

‘For you. What about me?'

Bea renewed the wet towels for the boy. ‘Aren't you both ex-directory?'

‘Yes, of course.'

Carmela nodded, too.

‘Then don't you see that the person doing this has to be someone either living in this building, or close to someone who is? How else could they know your phone numbers?'

Carmela was thoughtful. ‘There's a list of our landline phone numbers in the basement for the caretaker to use in emergencies. Anyone who lives here, or visits here, could get hold of it. The caretaker did ask me for my mobile number as well, but I made him promise to keep it under lock and key.'