False Charity (14 page)

It was better to do something rather than sit down and howl, which is what she wanted to do. The mess in her bedroom offended her tidy soul. She couldn't bear to go into the living room and take down the photograph frame for a closer look. She was sure she'd been mistaken. The light, her poor sight, the hours she'd spent in sleepless misery.

She was sure the photograph of Hamilton would be back where it always had been, when she went into the room again. Sure of it. She found her reading glasses and put them in her handbag. Money, keys, cards, notebook. She was ready.

Her car was sitting in a parking space down the street, just as Oliver had promised.

Maggie said she hadn't even got a provisional driving licence at the moment, so Bea backed the car out and edged into the traffic, turning north. It was strange and yet familiar to be driving her car again. Kensington was gridlocked, of course. It usually was. They crossed Notting Hill Gate and continued north and west. The houses in these roads were rather grander than Bea's, with no garden in front but some expensive shrubs in fanciful containers under columned porches. They turned into a quiet side street. The shop they were looking for lay on the corner. The sunshine lay heavily over all.

‘Where can we park?' Bea spotted a place some way down the road, and manoeuvred her car between a 4x4 and a toy boy's sports car. ‘It says “No Waiting”, so I'll stay in the car. If there's a problem, I'll keep circling the block until I can pick you up again.'

Maggie smoothed her hair up into the topknot – now without the orchid – and set off for the shop. Bea angled the mirror to watch her. If the shopkeeper accepted their letter, they'd have solved one part of the problem.

Ten minutes later there was still no sign of Maggie. Bea was getting hotter by the minute and beginning to worry. What could be keeping the girl? Had she been kidnapped by white slave traders – ridiculous notion – or got into a row with the shopkeeper or what? The shop was popular. The postman dived into the shop and came out a moment later. It was probably the only outlet for newspapers, sweets, instant meals and booze for half a mile.

A young man had been hanging around the doorway of the shop for a while, talking, laughing, chatting to someone standing inside.

Bea looked up and down the street. Was it safe to leave the car? Most of the other cars in the street had parking permits on them. The fines for illegal parking were horrendous.

Then Bea spotted a greenish skirt, brushing the young man's legs. She gawped. Was that idiot Maggie actually chatting up a young man, leaving Bea to sit in the car and fry in the sun?

Finally the young man – a personable-looking lad in expensive, casual clothes – lifted his hand to Maggie and went into the shop, while she bounced back to the car, grinning.

‘Mission accomplished. I went in all innocent, asking if they knew where these people lived, and the woman behind the counter said the charity were in the process of moving to another address and they were forwarding stuff, so it would be all right to leave my envelope with them. The postman dumped some mail on the counter for them as well. Luckily I can read upside down.'

‘And the young man?' Bea was feeling waspish as she edged the car out on to the road.

‘He was just hanging around, at a loose end. He was nice.' Maggie turned her blushes away from Bea. ‘He wanted to know if I lived locally. He's just visiting, did I know the best pubs and eateries, had I any free time to show him around, that sort of thing.'

‘A good chat-up line.'

Maggie sighed. ‘He said he'd ring me, but I don't suppose he will.' Now she was fiddling with her watch strap, mouth turned down. Was the cocksure Maggie not so sure of her appeal to the opposite sex?

‘Where's this hotel?' Bea took a right turn, checking street names. ‘Along here, somewhere? Parking in the square opposite. Good. Cheer up, child; on with the game and all that.'

‘He said he liked longer skirts on tall girls. Do you think it looks all right? I mean, it's not exactly trendy, is it?'

Bea sought for something to say which would help the girl. ‘Graceful girls can pull it off. Gawky girls can't.' Who'd have thought it? The tiresome girl was begging for reassurance, wanting to know if Bea really thought she was graceful. ‘You look good in that rig-out,' said Bea, feeling older than Time but only half as lively as the man with the scythe. ‘Ready to take notes? Prompt me if I forget to ask anything important, won't you?'

Bea led the way into the hotel, deciding it would be a good idea to have a cup of coffee, suss out the strengths and weaknesses of the place, before asking to speak to the manager. She turned into the coffee room – panelled, leather-clad chairs, lots of framed cartoons on the walls – a trifle old-fashioned but solid. If that was their clientele, then they'd caught the right note with the décor.

‘Let's sit here for a bit,' said Bea. ‘Have some coffee before we talk business.'

Maggie sat, but didn't know what to do with her legs. Bea set her feet side by side, and swung her knees slightly to the left. She leaned back in her chair. Maggie tried to copy Bea. Not a bad attempt.

The coffee was reasonable and the milk was hot. There were three different kinds of sugar. Shortbread biscuits came with the coffee, plus thick paper napkins. So far, so good. Bea consulted the waitress, asking if the manager were free to discuss a possible booking. Maggie tried crossing one leg over the other. Bea tried not to raise her eyebrows. Maggie uncrossed her legs. She pouted, fiddled with her hair. Oh dear.

A smooth-looking middle-aged woman came to join them. Black business suit, good haircut, discreet make-up, unusual jade earrings. Oh dear, Maggie was nibbling skin at the side of a fingernail.

Bea launched into her spiel about hosting a party for her ex-husband. Maggie got out her pad and made notes. Costings, food, size of rooms. The manageress was called away to the phone. Maggie refilled their coffee cups and spilled some in the saucer. ‘Leave it,' said Bea, holding back irritation.

They waited for the manageress to return. They could see her behind the reception desk, talking to someone on the phone. At length she returned to them, with a professional smile. ‘Staff problems. So sorry. Now, may I show you the room I think would be best for your purpose? This way.'

Maggie was staring at someone who'd just come into the foyer. She dropped her eyes and smiled, looking coy, then mumbled something about needing to visit the ladies'.

Bea might need reading glasses but her long sight was good. The young man who'd just entered was the same person who'd been chatting Maggie up in the shop. The girl was obviously smitten. Easy meat, thought Bea. He can see she's easy meat. All that aggressive behaviour, and she rolls over and dies for a man who pays her a compliment. Who'd have thought it?

I suppose I can manage without her for a few minutes. She followed the manageress down a corridor to the function room.

Thursday, noon

Noel kissed the back of his mother's neck. ‘Darling Mummy, don't scold, I know I'm late. I spotted this girl delivering to the shop – her aunt wants some tickets for Saturday – and she was delivering the cheque by hand to make sure they got the tickets in time. Quite a coincidence. Then I took the menus into the hotel, and had a word with the receptionist, who says the manageress is in a snit, holiday times, shortage of staff, man gone missing. They're thinking of reporting his disappearance to the police, but they hadn't done it by the time I left.'

Lena shrugged, stuffing tickets into envelopes. ‘Good luck to them.'

Noel caressed her neck, deciding not to tell her he'd arranged to see the girl Maggie that evening. No confidence in herself, that one. Should be a pushover; a little flattery, a bunch of flowers, a glass of wine too many. He'd turn her inside out tonight, find out if she had money. Well-heeled girls were always eager to give him a present.

Thursday, afternoon

B
ea feared she'd made a mistake. She oughtn't to have taken Maggie with her to the hotel or anywhere that a randy young man could get at her. The girl was in a happy dream; she answered questions at random, tripped over a chair, forgot to warm the plates at lunchtime. She was humming something which sounded remarkably like a carol.
Noel, No-el?
Oh dear. Was Noel the name of the young man who'd been chatting her up?

Bea hadn't lived to sixty without recognizing the type who'd got Maggie circling the kitchen, smiling to herself. He was handsome enough; granted. Well-dressed and polished, probably university, though not Oxbridge. Streetwise rather than studious. Job? Bea guessed he probably worked in advertising or the media, but he wouldn't work too hard at whatever it was.

Bad news for Maggie, who might act hard-boiled but who seemed to have a soft centre, despite her marriage … if she really had been married, which at that moment Bea doubted. Bea told herself that she had no right to interfere. Maggie wasn't her daughter, luckily. Maggie was a temporary employee, who would be leaving the agency next week.

Oliver was trying to make sense of the pages of information Bea had gathered, but raised his head long enough to stare at Maggie. ‘Aren't you eating?'

Maggie didn't hear him. She'd put the machine on for some coffee, though Bea didn't like drinking proper coffee at lunchtime if she was planning to have a nap afterwards. Which she was. She'd been drinking too much coffee this past couple of weeks, anyway. It might partly be what was stopping her having a good night's sleep.

Oliver switched his eyes to Bea. ‘What's up with her?'

‘Love's young dream,' said Bea, thinking that she was being a sour old puss, and maybe the young man would turn out to be someone who saw through the aggressive exterior to recognize Maggie's true worth. ‘Six foot two, works out, looks like a model complete with obligatory five o'clock shadow.'

Maggie was smiling. ‘He's gorgeous, isn't he? Mrs Abbot, do you think I could have the afternoon off to have my hair done?' A troubled look. ‘Oh, but I forgot. Are you going to pay me any wages, or does my living here till next week mean that I don't get any?'

Bea wondered if it wouldn't be better in the long run to deny the child her wages, if it meant she wouldn't appear at her best before her new man. Though precisely what Maggie's ‘best' might be, was an awkward thought. What hairdresser would she patronize, and would that hairdresser turn Maggie out like Kate Moss or Strewwelpeter?

Bea hesitated too long. The child's arms had gone akimbo.

Bea said, ‘Of course you get paid. You've looked after me very well, I couldn't have had anyone better. You'd prefer cash, wouldn't you? How much has Max been giving you?'

Maggie and Oliver consulted one another without words. Oliver said, ‘He didn't pay me at all, but that was all right. He gave Maggie a pittance in cash every Friday, plus a hundred for household expenses. Mrs Abbot used to order the food and drink on the Internet from Waitrose, and they delivered. That's how the food and drink for the party came. Everything else Maggie gets from Marks and Spencer's on the High Street. Mr Abbot kept a float in the safe in his study, but I don't think there's much there now.'

‘Do you know the combination?' Of course Oliver knew the combination. ‘Then let's look, shall we?'

Before they set off on their round the world trip, Hamilton had left his dress watch and studs in the safe together with Bea's mother's jewellery – which she rarely wore – plus the usual birth and marriage certificates, family papers, and a couple of thousand pounds in twenties. There was a wad of notes still there. Whose money was it, Max's or Bea's? How much had Hamilton left in the safe? Bea hadn't a clue; he'd always dealt with such things himself.

She wrote out a receipt for the money, gave Maggie five hundred, saying they'd sort out who owed what later, and told her to go off and enjoy herself. She set a new combination for the lock once Oliver was out of the room, and hoped he wasn't planning to become a safe-breaker. She did trust him. On the whole.

Coral arrived as Maggie left. Bea had been hoping for a little nap on her bed but clearly it was not to be. So Bea took Coral up into the sitting room, asking Oliver if he'd mind trying to make sense of all the information she'd got from the hotel that morning.

‘So, Coral. How do we stand? We've applied for tickets for Saturday, and I've got some details out of the hotel about outside catering. They prefer to do it themselves, but sometimes they have people come in for it. Ditto for the wine.'

Her sitting room was not as tidy as she liked it. The photograph frame was not at the right angle. She picked it up. A bland brown surface was the only thing to be seen inside the silver frame. No picture of Hamilton.

Coral was speaking, something about the wine.

Bea looked towards the window where Hamilton had been accustomed to sit, playing patience. He'd always used a rather good Regency card table for the purpose, and it was missing. That table had been handed down from his parents, who'd been given it as a wedding gift by
their
parents. When the top was folded over, it looked like any other side table, but underneath was a drawer in which you could keep packs of cards, dominoes, or a chess board. When the top was opened out, its baize-covered surface would accommodate four players, each with their own built-in ‘dish' intended for gaming chips. Not that Hamilton was a gamester. Far from it.

The table had disappeared, just as Hamilton's photograph had done. Bea put the silver frame face down on the mantelpiece. She told herself that Max had taken the photograph and had the table moved for some reason. Except that the photograph had been in its place all the time she'd been talking to him last night and when she went to bed. So Max couldn't have taken it.