False Charity (15 page)

‘What was that you said, Coral?'

Her old friend was concerned for her. ‘Didn't you sleep well?'

‘Can't fool you, can I? But it's best to keep on. How's June?'

‘The contractions have stopped but they want to keep her in one more night. I'll go in to see her later on. I've been thinking. Maybe I could get a second mortgage on my place to pay for June's.'

‘How could you ever repay it?' Bea forced herself to concentrate. ‘We'll track them down somehow, never fear. Now, I've been thinking, too. I understand from the hotel that the people who are doing the food on Saturday night – Oliver's got the details – are new to this sort of operation. I wonder if you'd like to ring them, go to see them, warn them. If they've been paid up front then of course it's all right, but if not—'

‘They'll be looking for a second mortgage, too.' Coral was grim. ‘Do you know who it is who's supplying the wine?'

Bea tried to remember. ‘The hotel is doing the wine. They charge so much corkage per bottle that it's not worth anyone bringing it in from outside. That first time, at the Garden Room – that's attached to a public house, isn't it? – presumably they did the drinks themselves.'

‘I think so. I'm trying to remember who did the drinks the second time round. They'd have been stung too, I suppose. But unlike me they weren't stupid enough to do it again.'

‘Or if they were such a small firm, it drove them out of business.'

‘Ouch,' said Coral. ‘I wish I could remember the name but there are lots of small firms in the wine business, plus shops here and there. I thought he gave me his card but I can't find it. An odd little man, but he knew what he was doing. He runs wine-tasting evenings. I should hate to think he's been driven out of business.'

Bea pressed buttons on the phone, which had an extension to the agency rooms downstairs. ‘Oliver, have you managed to make any sense of my notes? We'll come down and discuss them, shall we?'

Muffled shouts came through the phone. ‘Sorry, sorry,' said Oliver. ‘Just seeing someone out.'

Bea and Coral exchanged amused glances, and went down the stairs. Oliver appeared in the doorway from reception, flushed. ‘Sorry about that. It was the cleaner, the one who tried to get into the House of Commons. She says we owe her some money, but honestly I can't find any record of us giving her a job. She must be trying it on, knowing that we're closing down and hoping, I suppose, that we're a bit chaotic with our system, which of course we are.'

Coral was sharp. ‘Give her Max's current address.'

Bea held back a grin, but Oliver didn't. ‘Will do. Now what was it you wanted to know?'

‘We need a list of all the people who might have been stung. I was wondering about a photographer, surely there must have been one, and the cabaret people as well as those who provided food and drink. Could we start ringing round, trying to find other people who might have been involved? Get a clear picture of who is owed how much?'

Coral followed Bea into reception, hitting her forehead with the heel of her hand. ‘He wrote a column on wine for the local newspaper. I'm sure that's what he said.'

‘The freebie newspaper?' Oliver dived into the wastepaper basket.

‘Maybe. Would they have a column about wine in the freebie? Wouldn't it be in the Friday
Gazette
? That's got much more in it.'

‘The papers all get recycled,' said Bea. ‘We keep the box for them in the hall.'

Oliver ran up the stairs – How fast the young do that, thought Bea – and returned with last week's paper. He gave half to Bea and half to Coral, reaching for the phone which rang at that moment.

Bea put on her glasses and shuffled through her half, noting that some messy person had been reading the paper, dog-earing pages, folding some back untidily. Hamilton had always been a neat person, but he'd been messy with papers. Just as he never put a towel back on the rail properly, but kept it bunched up. How could you get a towel dry if you bunched it up like that?

‘Not in here,' said Bea, flapping the paper to open it out and refolding it.

Oliver was jotting down notes on his pad, saying, ‘Yes, yes. I quite understand, and I promise I'll tell her you rang. No, I'm afraid she's not available today. No, I'm not quite sure when she will be. Have a good day.'

‘Got it!' Coral laid the paper open on Maggie's desk. ‘Leo's wine column, Wines for the Week. Leo's Wines and Spirits, with an address and telephone number. He's just off Notting Hill Gate. I'll give him a ring, shall I?' Without waiting for permission, she reached for the phone.

Bea raised an eyebrow at Oliver, who gave her the gist of his phone calls. ‘There's quite a list. Do you know a Mrs Weston, or Westin? No? Someone called Smithson? Something about an outing for her grandchildren which she wants us to arrange. I said we don't do that any more, but she insists she's got to speak to you about it. She's rung before.'

‘Smithson?' Bea shook her head. ‘Can't recall anyone of that name. Nor Weston.'

‘Some people Max knew, I suppose.' He drew a line through his notes.

Coral was talking on the phone. ‘Is that Leo of Wines for the Week? We met some time ago. Coral, of Coral Catering … Yes, yes. That's it. Do you think I might drop in to see you sometime? What time do you close? … Right, I'll be there.'

Coral dropped the phone back on to the hook, and punched the air. ‘Bingo. I'll pop round to see him now, shall I?' She was halfway out of the door before Bea could say yea or nay. And disappeared, letting the outside door bang to behind her.

Oliver was consulting his notes again. ‘Mr Max rang. He's arranged for you to have a tour of the House of Commons tomorrow at eleven, will take you for lunch afterwards. Then Mrs Max rang to say she's picking you up at ten thirty tomorrow morning to take you out for the day.'

‘Also tomorrow morning?'

Oliver made a clucking sound. ‘They haven't synchronized their watches, have they?'

Bea shrugged. ‘Either way, I can't spare the time. Is that it?'

‘Some of your old friends leaving their numbers; the list's on your desk. A few people still wanting to know if we can take on jobs for them, someone selling stationery, nothing of importance.'

Oliver disappeared behind his computer screen and Bea wandered through into Hamilton's office. Her office now, she supposed. For a short while only, of course. Winding an agency down was bound to take a little time. The sky had clouded over. Was that rain hitting the window? No, probably not. Should she do something useful like watering the containers of busy Lizzies in the garden? Or just stand and stare as she was doing?

There really wasn't anything she felt like doing, anyway. She supposed she ought to tackle the ever-growing pile of post. There were people to see, return calls to make. The phone was ringing next door. She didn't move.

Oliver popped his head around the door. ‘That was Piers. Said you must have turned your mobile off. Said he'd got a rush job on but if you needed him, he'd come round for supper, late. I said you'd ring him if you got back from wherever it is you're supposed to be at the moment.'

Sensible boy. ‘Thank you, Oliver.' She was touched by his thoughtfulness. She remembered that he was working just for bed and board. ‘Oliver, shall we pay a visit to your father, ask for your certificates? It shouldn't take long.'

She could hear him swallow, even though she had her back to him. He stammered, ‘I-it's holiday t-t-time. He's p-probably n-not there.'

‘Wouldn't he have to go into school for a few days at least to talk to parents about their children's exam results?'

Silence.

‘I'll come with you,' said Bea. ‘Let's get it over with. I've thought of a line you could take. Tell him you've used his card illegally, but that if he gives you your certificates, you can get a job and earn enough to start paying him back.'

More silence.

Bea turned to face him. ‘You have told me the whole story, haven't you? There is nothing else?'

He shook his head, shifting from foot to foot.

‘You need to pick up your belongings, as well. You have your own laptop, clothes and so on?'

He nodded.

‘Then let's go and get them.'

Mr Ingram, Oliver's father, was headmaster of a small private school for boys aged eleven to eighteen, in a tree-lined Kensington square. The school itself occupied two four-storey terrace houses. Next to it was the house which he and his family occupied.

‘It's sort of grace and favour,' explained Oliver, taking his time about getting out of the car. ‘The Trust owns the school and the house next door, and they let Dad live there as long as he's head.'

‘Is he a good headmaster?'

Oliver shrugged. ‘His results are OK. He gets a lot of kids whose parents have come from overseas on short-term contracts, so they can afford the fees he charges. Most of those can't speak English very well.'

‘Mixed ability?'

Oliver nodded. Fidgeted with his collar. His breathing had sharpened. ‘Dad's ultra keen on sports, which impresses some parents no end. My elder brother and his wife are already working for him at the school. I'm the runt of the litter, very much an afterthought, don't really fit in anywhere, never have. I suppose we'd better try the office in the school first.'

He mounted the steps to the front door rather as if they were the steps to the scaffold. Rang the bell. A disembodied voice asked for a name. Bea – following close on his heels – gave her name, thinking they would take her for a prospective parent. The voice said that the head was not there that day, and could they call back tomorrow.

Oliver looked relieved. He would have returned to the car, if Bea hadn't done an about-turn and marched up the steps to the family's house next door. She pressed the doorbell. Chimes rang out. Not an appropriate sound for an early nineteenth century house.

An over-thin fifty-ish woman with sculptured fair hair opened the door. She had a face like a well-bred sheep – if you could have a blue-eyed sheep – and was expensively if unimaginatively dressed. On seeing Oliver she gave a little scream, and clapped both hands over her mouth.

‘Mrs Ingram, I assume?' said Bea.

‘It's all right, Mother,' said Oliver. ‘Really it is.' She didn't make any move to touch him, and he didn't make any move to touch her. ‘I've just come to collect my things and have a word with Dad if he's around.'

‘No, he …' She looked back into the house, and lowered her voice. ‘He's out, but your brother's here.'

A hefty looking young male appeared behind her. Much older than Oliver, possibly in his early thirties. Big, blond and blue-eyed. Tie neatly centred. ‘You! How dare you come here after what you've done!'

Oliver seemed to shrink. He was a foot shorter than his brother, anyway. ‘Look, I can explain—'

Bea decided it was time to intervene. ‘May we come in for a moment? My name's Abbot, by the way. Oliver is working for me at the moment.'

Oliver's mother was reaching out to him, but not actually touching him. ‘What are those clothes, Oliver? They're not very nice.'

The older brother yelled back into the house. ‘Daffy! Come and see what the litter louts have dropped on our doorstep!'

Oliver set his jaw. ‘Is my father in? I really need to speak to him.'

‘Out to you,' said his older brother. ‘For good. Get going, or I'll call the police.'

‘That's enough!' said Bea, exercising authority. ‘Will you tell Mr Ingram that his son needs to speak to him on a delicate matter. If he doesn't want to meet Oliver here—'

‘He's not entering this house again—'

‘—then he must appoint a meeting somewhere else. Urgently. And now, Oliver needs to collect his things.'

Oliver's mother began to weep. ‘Oh, why did you do it, Oliver?'

‘Do what?' said Oliver through his teeth. ‘If he says I was accessing porn, well, I wasn't.'

‘Why would he lie about it?' An intense-looking, thickset woman joined her husband at the door. ‘What, has that cretin dared to—'

‘That's enough!' said Oliver, and if his imitation of Bea came out as a squeak, it was enough to hold the tirade for a moment. ‘He was – was mistaken. There's no porn on my laptop. If you let me in, I can show you all the sites I've visited.' He looked from one implacable face to the next. ‘I know you don't want me around. I don't want to be around, either. I'm happy to move out. I've found a job and a place to stay, but I need my clothes, my laptop and my exam certificates. Also I need to speak to my father about, well, business.'

His mother was crying into a paper tissue which she'd fished out of the pocket in her jacket. ‘Oh, Oliver, he's so angry with you, you've no idea, and he won't speak to me about it at all, and if it wasn't the porn then—'

‘He's a lying little toad,' said the elder brother. ‘He's not coming in here again. That's what
he
said and that's how it's going to be. We're well rid of him, I say.'

His mother held out her hands to Oliver, but only a little way, not far enough to touch him. ‘We're giving your room to a new teacher at the school, so everything's been packed up and put out for the dustmen, only they don't come round till tomorrow, so it's all still here if you want it.'

Oliver was vibrating like a plucked string on a cello. ‘Oh, Mother! Don't cry. I didn't do it, honest. At least, I didn't do the porn. But you know how it's been, I don't fit in and it's best I leave.'

She gulped, and wept. ‘But where are you going? Do you really have a job? Will you give me your address?'

‘Fantasy,' said the elder brother, brutally. ‘He's too much of a wimp to go for a job, or to hold one down.' He eyed Bea up and down. ‘Got him as your toy boy, have you, love?'