False Alarm (6 page)

She gritted her teeth. ‘Give me one good reason why—'

‘Will you join me for supper one evening soon? I've heard of a rather pleasant restaurant not far away and would be glad of your opinion – and your company, of course.'

‘Grrr.' She shut the phone off with a click and took the steps down to the Underground station.

B
ea was still fizzing with rage when she turned into the road in which she lived . . . and halted in mid-stride.

Her important member of parliament son's car was parked outside her house. Of course she was delighted to see him. It gave her a lift of the heart to think he'd come to visit her . . . followed by a downturn of spirits when she remembered that he didn't usually call on her unless he wanted something.

She picked up her pace. Perhaps there was something amiss with her adorable grandson, whom she could never see often enough? But no, she'd have heard if that was the case. Anyway, Parliament had broken up for the winter recess and his mother had taken him up to her parents' house where he'd be spoiled rotten, the little love. Bea had handed her Christmas presents over to them last week before they left.

Max had said he was staying on this week for some urgent parliamentary business. All Max's business was of the utmost, if not national, importance . . . according to Max. But surely he'd said he was going up north to join his family this weekend?

Perhaps he was bringing Bea an extra present?

Don't get your hopes up, girl. He'd have asked his wife to send a hamper over as usual, and it wouldn't even be from Harrods. He wanted something.

As she got out her front door key, Bea looked up at the big sash windows of her living room, half expecting to see him standing there, waiting for her, as he used to do in the years after her first husband had left them and she'd had to struggle to bring Max up on her own. What a nice boy he'd been! He'd promised that when he grew up she would never have to go out to work again, that he'd take care of everything for her.

Ah well. Their fortunes had changed for the better when she went to work for her dear Hamilton at the agency, because he'd married her and adopted Max. When Hamilton had succumbed to cancer, there'd still been no need for Max to provide for her since she then had the agency to run. Max had got into parliament and married into a politically minded and influential family, so he now moved in different circles.

There'd be no clingy, tearful small boy looking out for her today. Instead, he met her in the hallway.

Once upon a time he'd been described as tall, dark and handsome, but good living and insufficient exercise was padding out his figure and blurring the lines of his face. ‘Where have you been?' Checking his watch. ‘I have a meeting in twenty minutes.'

She found herself apologizing. ‘Sorry. Something came up. Have you time for a coffee?' She dumped her handbag in the kitchen – no sign of Maggie, of course – and put the kettle on.

‘No. Oh, maybe.' A frown. Banished by a smile. ‘I called round to see how you were getting on with the contract for Holland and Butcher. I understand you haven't signed it yet, and I thought you might need some help with it.'

Bea gritted her teeth. Why did her son persist in thinking a woman would be unable to read a contract? Was it only his mother whom he treated like this? Surely he didn't talk down to all women in this way?

‘I am looking at it very carefully, yes. Did you say you had time for a coffee?'

‘And a slice of cake, if you have one.'

‘You can have a biscuit. I haven't done any baking this week. Too busy.'

His expression indicated displeasure. What! Couldn't she even spare the time to bake a cake in case he might call in and feel peckish? After all, what else did she have to do with her time?

‘Too busy to sign the contract? Isn't it to your advantage as an employment agency to tie up with a renowned training establishment for domestic staff? What are you holding out for?'

She sighed. Made a cafetière of coffee, found him a mug, sugar and milk. ‘They want me to become a director of their firm, and in return they'd like to propose someone from their board of directors to become a director of this agency. I'd prefer a looser arrangement. They could recommend their graduates to us, and we would try to find them suitable jobs. I see no need for a contract.'

‘They want closer ties. They want – no, they need – you to be more involved with their day-to-day business, to oversee and improve their training methods. You have a good manageress here, so why not oblige them by going over there a couple of days a week? You'd be sure then of getting the right sort of person for the agency.'

He gulped coffee, reached for the biscuit tin. ‘In return, they could appoint someone to advise you on the, well, larger issues, marketing strategy, perhaps some advertising slots in television.'

She narrowed her eyes. How did he know so much? Had he been discussing her agency with them? And if so, why? She prevaricated. ‘I'll have to think about it. Marketing, advertising; aren't we doing well enough as it is? Television slots? They're not really my scene. And there's something in the small print that's been nagging at me.'

An indulgent smile for a woman verging on her second childhood. ‘Show me what it is, and I'll explain it to you.'

‘Why are you so interested?'

‘I don't like to see you throw away a good business proposition.' A lie. He must be involved in some way. Oh dear. Had he been bribed to get the contract signed? What a nasty thought. But it clung to the back of her mind.

She said, fearing he wouldn't understand, ‘Apart from anything else, I'm not at all sure I want to work with that firm. I accept that Mr Holland was responsible for building the business up in the past, but I don't believe he has a firm enough hand on the tiller nowadays. He's getting on in years. He allowed his previous managing director to run the business into the ground and only sacked him when he turned out to be a scoundrel of the first water. I know he's appointed a new MD, but it's a question of trust. What if bad habits were to creep in again? Would Mr Holland notice? Or do anything about it, if he did?'

‘That wouldn't happen because you'd be around to see that it didn't.'

‘I'm not the keeper of their conscience, Max.' She tried to smile. ‘It's almost as if they want me to join their board and be responsible for what happens to them.'

An uneasy silence. Was that really what was at the back of their minds? Was this contract the thin end of the wedge? Did they want her on their board with a view, eventually, to a full-scale merger? Mr Holland must now be knocking seventy, was perhaps getting tired of running the business. Did he, perhaps, want to sell out to her? Would that be feasible?

Well, it might be. But where would she get the money from to buy them out, and could she see herself running a training college as well as the agency?

It would be a huge step up in the world, but did she want that sort of responsibility? No doubt the bank would . . . No, no. She'd be in debt for ever.

And yet.

The prospect dazzled and intimidated in equal proportions.

Max drained the last of his coffee. ‘They want your expertise and are prepared to pay for it, that's all. Now, I must be going. I really only dropped in to give you a couple of names for the guest list for your party. And don't forget to invite Mr Holland and the other directors.' He laid one of his cards on the table and wrote on the back of it.

Ah, the party which Maggie was hoping to hold in the New Year. Bea could see her wish for it to be a small, intimate affair for friends and family disappearing. ‘Max, it's not going to be a business “do”. I don't want it tied to the contract.'

‘You're not backing out of negotiations at this late stage, are you?'

‘Backing out?' The feeling strengthened that he must have got involved in some way. But how? And why? Money? But . . . Oh dear. Try a delaying tactic. ‘I rather thought I'd ask CJ to have a look at the contract. See what he advises.'

‘That's the ticket.' Yet he was half-hearted in his farewell hug. ‘Ring me if you find there's a problem, right?'

She saw him off.

All was quiet in the house. Maggie still hadn't got back yet, which Bea hoped meant that her argument with the plumber had been resolved.

She went down the stairs to the agency. All was quietly busy there. The new manageress was a treasure, clients were returning time and again, there were very few outstanding bills, and in the run-up to the Christmas holidays the agency's services were required more and more often.

Bea flicked through the messages left in a sheaf on her desk and on her answerphone and dealt with the ones that couldn't wait.

It was urgent that she speak to Oliver. She had a horrid feeling that CJ was going to push Oliver into the arms of the Vicori Corporation to serve his own ends, and she did not want that to happen. He was too young to realize that all that glitters is not gold, and that big corporations crunch up and digest promising young mathematicians before breakfast every day.

She must get to him first.

Oliver wasn't answering his phone. She left a message.

Next, Maggie . . . who answered her phone in a bright, don't-bother-me-now voice. ‘Oh, it's you? I'm a bit tied up, but I did pop round to see my mother before I came on here . . .' Her voice faded as she spoke to someone in the room with her. ‘Yes, everything's just fine, but . . . Just a minute. I promise I'll be with you in a minute.' And came back again. ‘My mother's got a bridge party this afternoon. I said I'd pop in again to see her this evening, but I'll come home for supper before then.'

Bea said, ‘Yes, but—'

Maggie switched off.

Bea found the memory stick which Lucas had pressed upon her and inserted it into her computer. There was just one document on it, giving the names, addresses and phone numbers of the tenants in the building. There was a garage in the basement, then a semi-basement flat occupied by a caretaker-cum-handyman. There were two more flats on each of six floors . . . and then the penthouse, which was the only dwelling at the top. No details were given for the occupants of the penthouse.

Bea thought about that, and she thought about Lucas and his . . . hubris? Was that the right word? Something lurked at the back of her mind about the skewed perception of the world that immense power gave to people at the top.

Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely?

Was Lucas corrupt?

Was CJ being corrupted by some political ‘necessity' to get a certain bill through parliament?

It gave her a headache to think about it.

She scrolled down through the names on the document and one of them rang a faint bell. No, she couldn't think where or how. Possibly a client, from way back?

Another thought. She accessed the Land Registry details and discovered that, yes, Lucas owned the freehold of the building. Well, he would, wouldn't he? With his wealth he could afford to buy the property, which would no doubt appreciate in value as time went on. Neat.

Bea tried Maggie again; but the girl didn't pick up. She tried Oliver; likewise.

She worked on agency matters till her manageress came in to say that they were shutting up for the night and was there anything . . .? Bea switched her mind to everyday matters and dealt with one or two queries that had cropped up. Nothing of earth-shattering importance; not like Maggie's problem.

Peace and quiet descended. Bea turned off her computer, checked that every door and window was locked and went up the stairs to draw the curtains in the living room . . . and to see what she could throw together for supper in the kitchen. Still no Maggie? She was usually home by now.

Her landline rang. Maggie. ‘Sorry, so sorry. Got held up. I'm at my mother's and she's a bit weepy, so I said I'd stay the night, if that's all right with you?'

‘Yes, of course,' said Bea, thinking that Lady O had managed to have people around for her bridge party that afternoon, and now had her daughter for the night.

‘Tarra, then,' said Maggie and clicked off.

There was a stir in the hall. The front door opened and a man shouted, ‘Hallo?'

Oliver? But . . . what . . .?

Bea scurried out to find him unloading his belongings from a hired car. ‘My dear boy!'

He gave her a quick hug and waved the driver off.

‘Don't we have to pay him?' said Bea.

‘All paid for.' He threw off his car coat and laughed down at her.

Since when had he grown so tall that he looked down on her? He'd been a slender youth, but now he was filling out. Oliver was growing up fast. He was doing well at university, and she had a horrid feeling that he was growing away from her.

‘I'll take my stuff up later. Meanwhile, I've time for a cuppa.' He made a beeline for the kitchen and put the kettle on.

She followed, thinking unpleasant thoughts. ‘CJ has been on the phone to you? He arranged a car to bring you home?'

‘He said you needed me to sort something out at the Vicori Corporation. He says that if I play my cards right, they'll take me on the strength. The opportunities . . . The sky's the limit! I can hardly believe I'm being offered . . . I'd never have dreamed, so soon! And it's all thanks to CJ.' He was beaming.

She was not amused.
Take this slowly, Bea
.
‘Dear Oliver, why didn't you ring me? Maggie's staying at her mother's overnight to keep her calm, and I'm not sure we've anything much in the freezer for supper.'

‘Not to worry. CJ suggested I go round there for a bite to eat so that he can fill me in on what's been happening. He'll give me a bed for the night and take me over to Lady Ossett's for breakfast. I'll keep her sweet tomorrow morning while Maggie goes off to work. Then I go into Vicori House in the afternoon. I'm to shadow the chief suspect as he goes about his work, something complicated in the business of buying energy from the Middle East. I'll soon get the hang of it. Isn't it exciting!'