False Alarm (24 page)

Bea, uncharitably, hoped one wouldn't come along for quite a while.

She turned up the street and made for the local café, which she trusted would be open on a Sunday. It was indeed, and as crowded as usual.

She managed to get a table for two and ordered soup and a piece of pie, with some coffee to follow. While waiting for her food, she rang Oliver on her mobile.

‘How are you doing, Oliver? Donald has been disposed of. Where are you now?'

‘I've just finished up at Harvey's; I dare say I ought to feel sorry for him, but I don't. He's a regular peeping Tom, has pictures of everyone in the flats and has even taken some of people living in the building opposite. He says he uses them as the basis for characters in his stories, and all I can say is that he's lucky not to have been sued by someone before now. He's presented me with a signed copy of one of his little tales, which I do
not
intend to read.

‘Anyway, I'm on my way up to see Maggie now because she's all on her own. Her mother's gone out, and Maggie doesn't know when she'll be back, but supper has to be on the table for . . . whenever. I asked her to come out with me, get a breath of fresh air, but she won't. How did you dispose of Donald?'

‘With ease and the help of his ex-girlfriend. I'm shutting my phone off now to have some lunch, but I'll get back to you later.'

‘You're coming back to the flats?'

‘I think so, yes. I've someone to see first.' She clicked off the phone. She hoped she'd read the situation aright.

Yes, she had. For here came Carmela, standing in the doorway of the café and looking around for somewhere to sit. Bea indicated the chair opposite. ‘I kept a place for you.'

‘I thought you might.'

‘Love your boots.'

‘I do trust the blood can be washed off. A pity about the ones you wore on Friday. Are they repairable?'

‘I'm afraid not.'

Civilities dealt with and food ordered, the two women got down to business.

Carmela said, ‘My thanks to you for dealing with Donald. I thought it might be him, but I had no proof.'

‘My proof came via a seller of the
Big Issue
, whose stand is by the public phone boxes opposite the tube station. He observes everything that goes on; sees the pimps putting the call-girl cards into the phone boxes, is amused by those who remove them. He spotted Donald putting some cards into the boxes, noted that he was not one of the usual run of pimps, and thought there might be a fiver or two in it for him if he collected some evidence. Which he did. I gave the lad fifty pounds, which I think was well worth it. I couldn't be sure Donald's fingerprints were on the cards, but the description I got did in fact lead straight to the culprit.'

‘Money well spent. I'll repay you, of course.'

‘I think I can understand what made him approach other women. Cynthia was too much of a good thing for him, so he tried his luck elsewhere and when that didn't work—'

‘Yes, but when he'd been told there was nothing doing, he shouldn't have tried to embarrass us.'

‘I rather think it caused more than embarrassment in Evonne's case. She suspected Connor was at the back of it, and it's ruined their relationship.'

‘Poor Connor. He used to be such a handsome, go-getting lad. Comes from a good family. Both sets of parents were pleased when they hitched up, but then they went a bit wild, started to drink heavily, got mixed up in the riots last year. They didn't do any great damage or steal anything of value but they spent a night in custody and were heavily fined. She reacted by pretending not to care about anything. He shaved his head and became devoted to daytime television. Night time, too, I shouldn't wonder.'

Bea was curious. ‘How do you know so much about the other tenants of the flats? I mean, usually in London you don't even know your neighbour's name, never mind their background. Ah,' she answered her own question. ‘The two biddies.'

‘They run up and down the stairs, taking in parcels and making sure we all have food if we get flu or whatever. Dreadful gossips, both of them. I don't dislike it in a way. As one grows older, one likes to feel there would be some backup if anything went wrong.'

‘Understood. Was Harvey acting as your backup when he took photos of men leaving your apartment?'

Carmela laughed. ‘Harvey overheard an altercation with one of my visitors who'd had a drop too much to drink and came out to see what was happening. It was rather brave of him, don't you think? The man concerned was a regular client but he'd just heard some bad news . . . which is no excuse for bad behaviour, but there; it happens. I have a pepper spray for protection and such conduct doesn't normally trouble me, but on that occasion I was pleased to receive assistance from my neighbour.'

Her coffee and Bea's soup came, and they both attended to the inner woman.

Carmela said, ‘My way of life can be lonely at times, and Harvey can be good company. We occasionally meet up for an evening at the theatre or a film.'

‘Was it he who decided to take pictures of your visitors? Er, you do know about that, don't you?'

‘Yes, and his pretty pictures of the young men he fancies . . . not that he ever takes it any further than that, you understand. It was his idea to take the pictures of my visitors as they left. He felt he was protecting me. I didn't see any particular harm in it.'

‘He might have used the pictures for blackmail purposes.'

A bland smile. ‘For visits to a therapist?'

Bea laughed. Of course. ‘Oliver tells me Harvey snapped one of Vicori's executives leaving your flat. Does Sir Lucas approve of that?'

‘You mean, was my visitor working on me to undermine Lucas's position?' Her eyebrows peaked. ‘Forgive me; I can't discuss that.'

Bea pushed her empty soup plate aside. ‘I assume you have a fair number of shares in Vicori?'

A tightening of the mouth. ‘I can't discuss that, either.'

‘It was you who got Lucas to send in another caretaker so quickly?'

‘I may have mentioned the necessity for a replacement.'

‘Then you have better access to him than I have. I was told he's on his way to Frankfurt for a meeting.'

‘So I believe.'

‘He's left Lady Ossett for good, hasn't he?'

‘I have no idea.' A bland smile.

‘Do you attend her bridge parties?'

A nod. A glance at a pretty gold watch. ‘Is that the time? I really must go.'

‘Are you acquainted with the next Lady Ossett?'

‘Who?' Carmela beckoned to the waitress for her bill.

‘Another “who?”. Who pushed the caretaker over the edge?'

‘What!' That caused her to flush. ‘You think . . .? No, really; that's not . . . Surely not!'

‘Think about it,' said Bea, accepting her pie with an eye that glistened. ‘My, this looks good enough to eat.'

Carmela got to her feet. No more smiles. Bea's question had shaken her. ‘I cannot conceive there is any—'

‘Who poisoned Lady Ossett's supper?'

‘What!' This was news to Carmela.

‘And I'm not all that happy about the death of the elderly woman on the ground floor, are you?'

‘Oh, now you are being absurd.' But Carmela was flustered enough to drop her purse.

Bea handed it back to her.

Carmela said, ‘Thanks,' and hurried out of the café, leaving the bill for her coffee on the table.

‘Now she owes me much more than fifty pounds,' said Bea to herself. ‘And I'm going to make sure I collect it.'

B
ea noticed the first few flakes of snow in the air as she returned to the flats. They rarely had significant falls in Central London. She couldn't remember what the weather forecast had been. She huddled into her coat and was reaching for the bell for the penthouse when a large, angry-looking man – someone Bea hadn't seen before – opened the front door while shouting back into the hall that this was his last word on the subject. He turned to leave but, on observing the change in the weather, stopped to fasten his car coat and search in his pockets for his gloves. He was so angry that his eyes passed over Bea without seeing her.

Bea waited because he was blocking the entrance.

The dark-haired girl, Evonne, appeared behind the man and pulled on his sleeve. She looked as angry as he. Father and daughter? A strong likeness.

Now, what did Bea know about him? Some sort of tycoon, not as influential as Sir Lucas but in that bracket. He rented the ground floor flat for his daughter and had offered her a job on the floor of one of his dress shops. The girl had declined.

‘You can't!' Evonne was red in the face with anger – or distress.

He threw her hand off. ‘Trust me. I can, and I will.' He pulled his coat collar up and thrust past Bea on his way down the steps.

Bea caught the front door before it could close, and entered. ‘Trouble?'

The door to Evonne's flat was open, and young Connor was lounging against it. Smoking. He hadn't shaved for a couple of days so he was sporting designer stubble and the beginnings of a reasonable thatch of hair. It suited him. His clothes were as unkempt as usual. And that didn't suit him.

Evonne threw up her hands. ‘Come in, why don't you, Mrs Abbot? It's visiting time at the zoo.' She pushed Connor into the flat before her. ‘You, you've slept in your clothes again. Go and have a shower, clean yourself up. Think about where you're going to move to.'

‘Moving out?' said Bea.

The girl picked up some newspapers and tried to shove them into an already overflowing bin. ‘He's given us one week to move out. He's gone all heavy Victorian, doesn't want his name sullied by being dragged through the newspapers again. He doesn't know anything about Donald, and don't you dare tell him! He's got himself into a state about the caretaker's death though I can't for the life of me think why. As I told him, it had nothing to do with us. We didn't even know he was missing till Oliver came asking for him, and it was an accident anyway.'

Connor hadn't obeyed her order to have a shower and was still hanging around. ‘I bet it was that tart from number seven who grassed on us.'

‘What?' The girl picked a cushion up off the floor. ‘What do you mean?' She changed colour as understanding dawned. ‘You mean she told him about the call-girl cards and our visitor the other day? But . . .!'

Bea kept very still. Surely the pair must have known that Evonne's daddy was one of Carmela's clients? Well, perhaps not. These two were not in the habit of monitoring who came and went in the building.

Evonne pummelled the cushion in her hands. ‘No, she wouldn't tell, surely. She was just as much of a victim as I was. And Donald's out of it now.' Another thought struck her. ‘You don't think Donald would go to the papers about it, do you? No. Why would he? It would only show him up for the scumbag that he is.'

No, it wasn't Donald's dirty tricks which might put them in the newspapers, but it might be the caretaker's death. Carmela hadn't wanted to believe there was anything untoward about it, but Bea's interest might have made her rethink. Her loyalty to Sir Lucas was well established. She knew he needed to avoid a bad press.

Cynthia was not likely to talk, and the troublesome Tariq had departed, but there on the ground floor were a couple who had already been in the papers for their part in the riots. No jobs, no means of support. What else might they get up to? Yes, it was worth while Carmela tipping off Evonne's father – who was probably at his wits' end what to do about his daughter anyway – and who had in consequence overreacted by ordering the girl out of his flat.

Evonne threw the cushion at Connor. ‘You stupid, good-for-nothing berk! None of this would have happened if you hadn't lost your job and become such a slob. I can't bear to look at you! Get out of my sight!' She was quivering with rage. When he didn't move, she screamed at him; ‘Get out! Now!'

He shrugged and sloped off to the kitchen.

The girl's shoulders heaved. She put her hands over her face. ‘Sorry! I shouldn't let him get to me.'

Bea put her arm about Evonne and led her to the settee. ‘You really do care for him, don't you? Or you wouldn't be so upset. Would it be such a bad idea for you to get out of this place, make a fresh start? Have you anyone you can stay with?'

‘A school friend, I suppose. Sleeping on her sofa. That it should come to this! I had such plans when I left university and set up with Connor. And now what! No job, no flat, no future.'

‘What did you study at university?'

‘Oh, the usual. Business studies. Along with a thousand others.'

‘Are you computer literate?'

‘Of course. Who isn't! Where will Connor go? He doesn't have any family in London.'

‘What skills does he have?'

‘A degree in literature. A fat lot of use that is. He refused to do teacher training, and he'd have been no good at it, anyway.'

‘If he had some training, could he wait at tables?'

‘Mm? I suppose so. He's presentable enough when he scrubs up. But he wouldn't want to do that, would he?'

‘Faced with the prospect of no bed and breakfast, or taking a low-paid but worthwhile job; which would he choose? Is he so self-destructive that he'll lose you and start sleeping on the streets rather than work for his living?'

Evonne twisted her hands, didn't reply.

Connor had come in behind them. ‘What sort of job are you offering?'

‘I run a domestic employment agency. Here is my card. If you present yourselves there tomorrow morning, appropriately dressed and in your right minds, I'll see if one of my operatives can find something for you both.'

They stared at her. Evonne bit her lip, frowning.