False Charity (12 page)

‘The second time they'd scheduled a cabaret and it was a much bigger do, only of course the star didn't turn up. Done a sickie. They had some sort of rap singer instead. Garage, do they call it? Couldn't make out a word he said, but then perhaps that's just me. People seemed to like it, though of course some said they were disappointed. Then the DJ, the same one as before. He was quite good, not the tops, but handsome enough to turn heads. Making eyes at all the older women. You know. Oh, and an auction.'

‘If the customers had been well wined and dined, they were probably in a mood to forgive the star not turning up for the cabaret. At least, they'd forgive it once, but not twice. Who was it supposed to be?'

Coral said, ‘Can't remember, someone who's had chart toppers in his time but not recently. Isn't it on the flier?'

‘No, it isn't. “Cabaret: to be announced.” That covers a multitude of sins.'

Bea checked that Oliver was taking notes. Which he was. ‘They wouldn't try that on twice with the same customers, would they? I wonder who else they didn't pay? The hotels? Maggie, didn't I ask you to check the hotels?'

‘I thought you'd never ask,' said Maggie, beaming. ‘I couldn't get anyone to talk to me about them at the two places Coral was stung, but then it occurred to me that maybe they were making a habit of doing it. Well, not a habit, exactly, but—'

‘We get the point,' said Bea. ‘You've come across them somewhere else?'

Maggie was so pleased with herself at being able to contribute that her words tumbled out almost too fast to follow. ‘I've just discovered that these people, at least, I think it's the same because the name's nearly the same only not quite, and Oliver says he thinks that's what they do, change the name slightly each time, so nobody realizes. Anyway, they've got another do on in a couple of days' time, Saturday, at the function room at Green's, a hotel not far from here.' Her voice died away. ‘Only, of course Oliver pointed out that it may not be the same people and they may be absolutely kosher, and I didn't know how to check.'

‘Oliver?' said Bea.

‘On to it,' he said, leaving the room at a fast lope.

Coral wasn't convinced. ‘Hotels always ask for references and a deposit when they take a booking.'

‘References can be forged,' said Piers, from the depths of his chair. ‘I'm sure Oliver could tell us how.'

Maggie made an inarticulate noise but, having taken Piers' measure, made no other protest.

‘How do they get round the deposit?' asked Coral.

Bea said, ‘The best scams, surely, are those which pay out something in order to get something back. If they give a genuine deposit which is cleared by the bank, then when it comes to paying the balance, why, that's when they're just not there. Like Macavity.'

‘What?' said Piers.

‘Sorry. My mind's wandering. In the
Cats
show. When any mischief occurs, he's never there. Macavity.'

Oliver returned, holding his clipboard in front of him, but with a sparkle in his eye. ‘I think Maggie's on to something. The charity is calling itself The International Emergency Fund for Aid to the Far East. A really big charity ball, cabaret, auction, late-night DJ. The contact person is a Mrs Amanda Briggs. I enquired for tickets, and they said I could phone her direct. It looks like a mobile number. Or write to their address which – wait for it! – is the same as the one they used earlier, the shop.'

‘Briggs!' shouted Maggie, waving her arms around. ‘It was Briggs before, wasn't it?'

‘If Oliver's right and they just change their names a little each time,' said Bea, ‘then it's definitely the same people. The continued use of the accommodation address confirms it.'

Piers' eyebrows peaked. He was going to say something outrageous, Bea knew. She wondered why she wasn't throwing him out. The problem was that although she knew he could be as unreliable as quicksand, there were times when he'd proved trustworthy. Maybe this was one of those times. He said, ‘Well, shall I get us some tickets, Bea? Oliver, get on the phone and magic them up for us, there's a good boy. But don't charge them to your father this time, right? Use this.' He held up what looked like a platinum card for Oliver to take.

‘Righto, sir,' said Oliver, only too eager to obey.

‘Stop!' Bea clapped both hands over her eyes, to help her to think more clearly. Then removed her hands so that she could check on Oliver's reactions. ‘Oliver, from the depths of your experience, is it a good idea to let a dodgy concern have access to your card number?'

‘Er, no.' Oliver reddened. ‘Not really. They could use it to buy all sorts of things and sell them on ebay. Shall I use my father's number, then?'

‘No!' shouted Piers and Bea together.

‘No,' said Bea, more quietly. ‘Let's think this through. I agree that it might be a good idea for Piers to go to this shindig—'

‘I'm not going alone, my girl. You come with me, or nobody goes—'

‘—and I'm strongly of the opinion that if anyone goes, it should be Coral—'

Coral had gone off into a corner to use her mobile and didn't hear this. Presumably she was ringing the hospital.

‘—because she's the only one who can recognize the people who are running the scam. If we can only make some kind of identification, we can … oh, I don't know. Piers, could you do some sketches of them?'

Piers looked at the sketch he'd been making, pulled face, and tore it into tiny pieces. ‘Not unless my wrist makes a miraculous recovery.'

‘What about taking photographs of them on a mobile phone?'

‘I hate those things,' grumbled Piers. ‘I can manage the ordinary sort of mobile when I have to or in an emergency, but you need an engineering degree to make these camera phones work, unless of course you're under twenty-five.'

Oliver said, ‘I've got one, and I know how to use it.' They all looked at him, and he reddened. ‘Well, I bought it for Maggie, but she wouldn't take it when she knew how I paid for it.'

That silenced everyone; could they square their consciences enough to allow Oliver to use a phone which he'd bought on stolen information?

‘Then it belongs to your father, not you,' said Bea, but didn't sound too sure about it. ‘Oliver, you really must sort yourself out with your father, confess what you've done, make restitution and so on. Now about paying for the tickets, since we don't want to give them a card number I think we should pay them by cheque.'

‘One that will bounce?' asked Oliver, hopefully.

‘I don't know how to write a cheque that will bounce,' said Bea, between amusement and shock.

‘Let me write it out for you,' said Oliver. ‘You don't need to know anything about it, just sign it. We'll deliver it by hand to the address at the corner shop, and they send us the invitations by return. Before the cheque bounces.'

Piers said, ‘I hate to throw cold water over what promises to be an enchanting evening, but what do we do when – if – we get to the ball, and Coral does recognize these people? We can't summon the police and say, in lordly fashion, “Lock these miscreants up!” There'd be a riot. We'd be thrown out into the street as drunken revellers, or worse.'

No one had the answer to that. Bea tried to think, rubbing her forehead, wishing that Hamilton would beam down the answer to her from wherever he was now, heaven, probably, if you believed in heaven, which he had done, bless him. Now and then she believed in heaven herself, but not always, not all the time.

Maggie was frowning at Oliver, who was biting a fingernail, disgusting!

Coral was still busy on the phone, staring at the wall, oblivious to what was going on behind her. Worrying about her daughter. This was, of course, only right and proper, but Bea felt like slapping her. And all of them. Why? Because they weren't Hamilton, that's why.

Piers had finished his coffee. Any minute now he'd ask if there were another bottle of wine going. Bea stood up, wanting to be out of there, wanting to be sunning herself on a palm-fringed beach, in a five-star hotel in France, anywhere but here. Wanting Hamilton. She'd been too abrupt. Their shocked faces proclaimed that they'd been prepared to go on talking all night. Well, she wasn't.

‘I'm sorry, but I'll have to throw you all out,' she said. ‘It's just hit me, jet lag or something. Sorry, sorry, but I'll be no use to man nor beast till I've had a good night's sleep.' Even as she said it, she knew she wouldn't sleep tonight, either. She was too tired, too sad, too far over the hill and down the other side.

Coral clicked off her mobile. ‘Jake says they're keeping June in tonight, but the contractions have stopped, which is good, isn't it? Ready for bed, Bea? I should think so and all. It takes days to get over a long flight and months, sometimes years, to get over losing your best friend. So I'll be on my way. I'll check back with the hospital first thing tomorrow, and if there's no news I'll come on in, see what's on the menu, right?'

‘We need more information,' said Piers, grumbling to himself, but getting to his feet. ‘The hotel is the logical place to start. Where am I sleeping tonight, does anyone know?'

Bea was so tired, she ignored him. She tried to close the French windows that led on to the garden, but couldn't seem to make the catch work.

‘I'll do that,' said Maggie, predictably taking over.

It seemed for an instant as if Bea were back in the plane, hearing the drone of the engines. She shook her head to clear it. What nonsense. She put on a smile, and made her way to the stairs. She was aware of someone following her. If she concentrated hard enough, she'd get up the stairs to the first floor. There, she'd made it. And now the second set of stairs. She was floating up them, how very odd.

Someone came into the bedroom with her and closed the windows, drawing down the blinds, talking to her in a soothing monotone.
Here's your dressing gown, that's right, this arm first. This way to the bathroom, I'll wait outside, shall I?
She stood in the shower, thinking how absurd this all was. She was being treated like a small child.

Here's a nice, big towel. There you go. And I found this nightie for you, isn't it pretty? Where did you get it? Well, never mind all that now. Look, I've turned down the bed for you, and all you have to do is pop yourself in and I'll turn off the lights as I go out, right? See you in the morning.

Bea lay on her back on ‘her' side of the big bed, and resolutely closed her eyes. She told herself she was tired enough to sleep through the night and half of the next day, and feared she wouldn't sleep at all. She ached all over. She wanted to get up and find her reading glasses and open Hamilton's Bible and read something soothing. A psalm, maybe. But she hadn't the energy to get out of bed.

After a while she found herself staring up at the ceiling. As dusk drew on to night, the edges of the room faded into darkness. She only realized that she'd been crying for a while when the pillow beneath her head became sodden.

She made herself move over to Hamilton's side of the bed.

When he couldn't sleep, he used to get up and go downstairs so as not to disturb her. He'd sit and play a game of patience at his table in the window. Sometimes he'd pick up a book of puzzles, and work through several until he felt relaxed enough to come back to bed. She'd heard him crying in the night, once, when he thought she was asleep.

She stared at the ceiling. Willed her eyelids to shut. Lay still, still, still. Did she doze off? She rather thought she might have done. Eventually the first of the birds began their chorus. Just before dawn, and not at dawn as the poets said. The night would end sometime. She had to believe it.

What she couldn't believe was that the dawn would come and Hamilton wouldn't be there to see it. It just wasn't possible that life could go on, that people would whistle in the street, go about their business, get on buses and Underground trains and go to work and come home and have supper and switch on the television and go to bed. Without him.

She'd be no use to anyone tomorrow. Hardly able to help herself, never mind anyone else. She dozed and woke and dozed again, falling properly asleep at four.

Thursday, morning

Noel let himself into the flat at dawn. His mobile rang. The little receptionist, wanting to make sure he'd got home safely, and that when he'd said he'd loved her, he'd meant it.

He couldn't think why he'd bothered with her. She hadn't been able to tell him anything of interest, except that the missing man had played both ends against the middle, had even asked her out for a drink. Not that she'd accepted. She wasn't at all bothered that he hadn't turned up yet, though the management was beginning to fret.

Noel found his mother's handbag and lifted some fifties from it. What a wonderful woman she was, to be sure. Never a word said, but a supply of petty cash always on hand. It was lucky she didn't know about the other incident. She might not be so forgiving if she knew this wasn't the first time he'd killed.

Thursday, morning

B
ea rose at ten. She usually got up at seven, but had overslept. She could hear people moving about the house. If only she'd had the gumption to throw everyone out last night, she could have had the house to herself, and slept as long as she liked. She hated herself and everybody.

She showered, dressed and dragged herself down the stairs, thinking that there was something she ought to be thinking about, doing. The black dog sat on her shoulder.

‘Morning!' said Maggie, clashing pans together. ‘What would you like for breakfast?' The girl was wearing a turquoise tank top over a skirt so short it looked like a pelmet. Her legs were far too thin for a short skirt. She'd pulled her hair into a topknot and fastened it with a silk orchid on a band. Too chirpy to be true.