False Charity (19 page)

‘There were people going in and out of that shop all the time I was there, weren't there, Maggie?' Maggie was gazing into space and didn't reply. ‘What's more, it's residents' parking only.'

‘I have my trusty steed,' said Leo. ‘My velocipede.'

Bea blinked, mentally picturing him on an ancient motorbike, wearing flying goggles and leather gauntlets. And a helmet. Did he really go out dressed like that?

‘Suppose he's on foot?' said Oliver. ‘It's more likely, isn't it? Around here most people walk, there's plenty of buses, the Tube's not far away. If they did choose that shop for a reason, then my guess is that they live nearby.'

‘They ought,' said Leo, severely, ‘to have found another accommodation address for each event.'

‘Granted,' said Bea, hiding a smile, ‘but maybe Oliver's right. They think they've covered their tracks, they don't know we're hunting for them, and they've kept that place on because it's close to where they live.'

Satisfied, Leo nodded. ‘I'll get on to it, then.'

‘Wait a minute,' said Bea. ‘If they spot you, they'll know you're on to them. And then what? Do you try to make a citizen's arrest? The rest of the gang would disappear and we'd be left no better off. Do you have a camera? If you do spot one of them, do you think you could take a photo? But only if you can do it without their realizing.'

‘Point taken, dear lady. The last thing we want is for them to disappear before we've got them where we want them. I'll buy a disposable camera. If I see them, I'll go snap, snap! And then follow them, right?'

Coral said, ‘Aren't they supposed to be living somewhere down near the river?'

Bea shook her head. ‘
Supposed
to be isn't the same as actually doing it. Can we believe a word they say? The shop accepted our letter with a cheque in it yesterday, and why not? From their point of view, the more the merrier. Let's recap … yes, Maggie, what is it?'

Maggie was playing with a tissue. ‘I was thinking about food for the weekend. We need to get some in. Could you spare me some cash?'

Their concentration had been broken. The phone rang again in reception. Presumably the answerphone was taking messages. Had it rung before? Perhaps it had. ‘Yes, of course.' Bea dipped into her purse. ‘Remember some of us are going to the function tomorrow evening, so will eat there.' Maggie took the money and left.

Coral eased herself off her chair. ‘About tomorrow. I don't think I'd better come with you. The moment they see me in your party, they'll take fright.'

‘We need you there. It's only you and Leo who can identify them.'

Coral persisted. ‘Do we know who's doing the catering tomorrow? Is it the hotel?' She leaned over to look at their notes.

Bea found the reference first. ‘A company calling themselves A Passion for Food is doing it. I've got the address and phone number. The hotel people said it was a small concern, just starting out.'

‘Poor things,' said Coral. ‘I hope they know what they're doing.'

Bea rubbed her forehead. ‘Do you think we should warn them?'

Coral shook her head. ‘They may cancel at the last minute, and then the villains might take fright and scarper. Can we risk that? No, what I was thinking was that I'm pretty well known in the trade. If I can get hold of these people, I might be able to talk my way in as an extra waitress for the night. Then I can tip you the wink if I spot them.'

‘What if Mrs Briggs spots you?'

‘That sort don't look at the paid help. Give me the number of these people who are passionate about food, and I'll see what I can do.'

‘So who's going to go as guests?' asked Oliver.

The phone rang again. Bea ignored it to count on her fingers. ‘Me. You to take pictures in case Leo doesn't get lucky. Piers, if he troubles to surface again. That leaves one spare. We'll take Maggie. Cheer her up.'

Coral was getting ready to leave so Leo stood, smoothing his moustache to left and right. ‘That's all very well, but supposing we do get to confront them. Has anyone the slightest idea what we do next?'

They all looked at Bea, who stared back. Well, what were they going to do?

She hadn't a clue. If they couldn't go to the police – and they couldn't because of Coral's problem with the wages – then what could they do? ‘I'm working on it,' said Bea.

‘The phone, Mrs Abbot,' said Maggie, popping her head back through the door. ‘Mr Max has left two messages, also Mrs Winson – or whatever her name is – and they both asked you to ring back.'

The front doorbell rang. And rang. There was a general exodus from the office. Bea said, ‘I'll take it,' to no one in particular, and climbed the stairs to the hall.

She opened the front door and said, ‘You stole the photograph, didn't you?'

Piers slid into the hall, and shut the door behind him. ‘You guessed why? I cadged a corner of a studio from a friend and started straight away, worked most of the night, bar a couple of hours when I dossed down on his couch. Got to have a break now or I'll go crazy, but it's coming on.'

Anger had replaced her first feeling of loss. ‘Did it occur to you that I might not want Hamilton done in oils?'

‘Pastels, dear. Not oils.'

She shrieked, ‘Pastels? How cheap!'

He was laughing, steering her into the sitting room. ‘Come off it, ducky. Oils it is. It's a gift so once it's done, you can smash it up and burn it if you like. Although I'd have you know that my portraits command a very respectable price these days.'

‘Yes. No. I'm sorry. No, I'm not!' She clenched her fists and closed her eyes. ‘I'm so angry I don't know what to, how to … I thought I loved him mildly, as a friend, but it seems I loved him wildly as well.'

Piers investigated the side table. ‘Shall I open a bottle?'

‘The photograph going missing, that almost did me in. Why didn't you tell me? I couldn't think what had happened to it. His table's gone missing, too, that he always used to sit at and play patience, and I've still got his clothes to sort out.'

‘There's a good-looking antique table in the shed in the garden. I spotted it when we were hunting for Oliver. Would that be it?'

‘The damp! Cobwebs! How dare Max put it there!'

‘I expect they needed the space for entertaining.' He pressed a glass of something into her hand and guided her on to a chair. ‘Sit down, drink up, and relax. I suppose you've been letting Coral wind you up.'

‘I could scream!'

‘All right then, scream.'

She took a sip from the glass. Brandy. She set it down. ‘No, thanks. I'd rather have coffee. No, I wouldn't. I'm not sleeping properly, and coffee only makes it worse. What have I got myself into, Piers? I've said I'd try to help these poor people, but I haven't a clue how. Even if we find out where they live, what can we do? Camp out on their doorstep, begging for the money? The police would move us on. Coral can't take her case to the police because her son-in-law fiddled the books, and as for the squadron leader—'

‘The what?'

Bea was overwrought. ‘Don't try to make fun of him. He may be an anachronism but he's lost a packet, too. He went to the small claims court, but without a genuine name and address to give for them, he didn't get anywhere and neither will we. We've hardly any proof of their existence, even.'

‘Then get some, ducky. If they've done it before—'

‘Twice that we know of.'

‘—then they must have left a paper trail somewhere.'

‘The squadron leader is all for staking out their accommodation address but hundreds of people go through that shop every day. Even if he did recognize someone and follow them, he'd be spotted, for sure. He doesn't exactly blend into the background.'

The phone rang at her elbow. She glared at it and turned her head away. ‘I've had enough. I want out. Out of here and out of everything.' That came out as a whisper.

Piers picked up the phone. ‘The Abbot residence … Well, hello, Max. Yes, it's me, propping up your mama, who is in dire need of support at the moment. She's worried about Coral. I'm going to advise her that Coral sues you personally for her money since—' He clapped his hand over the telephone while Max went ballistic at the other end. At length, ‘Yes, but you must admit it's a reasonable solution, Max. No doubt you are covered by insurance, and obviously your mother can't be expected to pay … yes, I daresay it would be a tidy sum and no, I don't suppose the Party would be best pleased if you were dragged into a dispute but … well, yes, you might have to settle out of court if—'

Max slammed the phone down, and Piers cradled the handset, laughing.

Bea was forced to laugh, too. ‘Now, now, Piers. Don't wind him up. I suppose Coral could make out some kind of claim on us, though she wouldn't.' Or would she? If the worst came to the worst, she just might. ‘Well,' she said, ‘whether Coral could or couldn't, the squadron leader can't because he wasn't introduced through Max.' A thought struck her. ‘I wonder. We used to find clowns and magicians for children's entertainments in the old days, using a theatrical agency in Soho. I wonder if Max asked them to supply singers for those two functions.' She hesitated, wondering whether to ring Max back. ‘I'd better go downstairs and see if Oliver can trace them.'

Piers wriggled his wrist. ‘I'll need some help getting your table back up, so let me have first crack at Oliver. Then, duty done, it's back to work. I think you'll be pleased with the portrait when it's done. It's the best I can do to make up for his loss.'

‘I reserve judgment. Oh, and you'd better get your dinner jacket ready for tomorrow night. You're squiring me to the ball, remember?'

Friday, early evening

He was – just slightly – put out. In his experience, girls never ignored his phone calls and text messages. Of course, he had to admit that Maggie was different from the type he usually went for. Sexually practically a virgin, which was also unusual. Apparently her ex-husband had been unable to rouse her in bed. What a prick!

He'd even considered that he might do worse than get serious about this one. He'd phoned and left a dozen messages. Texted her again and again. No reply. Odd. Girls were usually hanging on to the phone waiting for him to ring.

Like the little slag of a receptionist. Like Shirl. Like, well, others.

Still no reply. Perhaps her battery had run down. He'd have to phone the house if she didn't get back to him soon. He'd been thinking about her all day. Unusual for him. Perhaps it was because she was so childlike? Expected nothing from him? Yet her body had excited him as few others had done.

Abbot. Kensington. He knew the road. He could find her, no sweat. He wasn't planning to see anyone else that evening. And definitely not the little receptionist whose calls and texts he'd been deleting all day.

Friday, evening

B
ea put aside all her worries in order to restore her table – Hamilton's table – back to its original glory. Luckily Max had thought to swathe it in some plastic sheeting before stowing it in the shed. True, once Piers and Oliver had manoeuvred it up the stairs into the sitting room, it did take up a bit of space by the windows, but it was an elegant piece and anyway, it was only in high summer that it was warm enough to leave the French windows open.

A slurp of vinegar in a bowl, some warm water, a soft cloth. Greasy finger marks and dust disappeared. Another soft cloth, and the surface burnished up nicely. The high-backed chair that Hamilton had been accustomed to use was too low for Bea, but one from the dining-table was just right.

She slid the top of the table round and discovered several packs of playing cards inside, including two packs of patience cards, with an instruction booklet. Hamilton had got through a double pack every six months. She'd bought them from Harrods for him; one at Christmas, and one for his birthday in June. The last pack hadn't even been opened.

She pushed the tabletop back into position and opened it up. She tore the wrapper off the virgin double pack of cards, and checked that they were all there. She replaced one pack back in its box, and shuffled the other. Hamilton could do this with a flick of his wrists. Shrrrrrim. She couldn't do it as quickly as him, but she didn't do badly, either.

As a beginner, she used only one pack of cards in an easy game. She dealt out the cards, face down, in the Clock patience. One o'clock, two o'clock, rock. Right round to the queens at twelve o'clock. Four times. Then four cards face down in the middle in the king's space. Turn the last card of the middle pile face up. A two. Slip the two under the cards at two o'clock, take the top card off that pile. A queen. Tuck that under the pile at twelve o'clock, take the top card off that pile and put that under the pile at nine o'clock. Here we go round the mulberry bush. King. Eight. Two. Ace. Three kings were up. If a fourth one came up, the game would be over. We're nearly there. Bother. Four kings up and a lot of cards still face down. The game was over but hadn't worked out.

She shuffled, and stirred the cards, face down. Dealt again.

Hamilton hadn't played the Clock patience. He'd liked several double patience games, all of which looked complicated. She wouldn't attempt one of those. Two kings came up quickly. She slipped cards under and moved them around the clock. Four kings came face up before half the cards had been revealed. Finish.

Hamilton had played patience a lot when he was stressed. He'd said it calmed him down, let his subconscious deal with the problem while his hands moved the cards around. She dealt again. One king came up straight away.

Some people were superstitious about cards, thinking that the queen of spades meant death. There was the queen of spades, not quite smiling up at her from the table. Bea swept the cards to one side and leant on her arms, looking out over the garden to the tree beyond, and beyond the tree to the sky which was clouding over, and the spire of the church. Up in the sky some birds were circling. She didn't know what they were. House martins, perhaps? Perhaps she should set up a bird table and get a book to learn the difference between a sparrow and a starling.