False Charity (20 page)

Playing patience hadn't done anything for her. It had been a waste of time and energy. What she needed to do was make a list, build a folio of facts, a pile of presentations. Why, she'd really no idea how much money these con men had managed to accumulate so far, or how long they'd been doing it, either.

Oliver had managed to trace a few names of people and organizations who'd been used by the con men, but as for evidence … forget it! She'd been all woolly and sympathetic and not at all businesslike, and did that get you anywhere? No.

Where was Oliver, anyway? And was Maggie fit for work yet?

The afternoon was clouding over so Bea went to shut the French windows, noting that Maggie – really the girl was too thin for perfect health – was watering the tubs below. Bea told herself that Maggie was coping all right, wasn't she? And then thought that if it had been her who'd been abused like that, she wouldn't be out watering the garden, but be tucked up in bed, crying. Bea had to admire the girl's grit. She went down the steps to talk to her. ‘How are you feeling? You ought to take it easy today.'

Maggie held up her mobile phone. ‘He won't take “no” for an answer. Wants to see me this evening. I don't know what to do.'

Bea was brisk. ‘It's your call, love. Tell him “yes”, tell him “no”. Get on with your life.'

‘He doesn't frighten me. Not really. I mean, it would be silly to let him scare me, wouldn't it?'

Bea sat on irritation. ‘Then text him “no”.'

‘I did, first thing this morning. He's tried to get through to me umpteen times since, and sent me lots of texts. I keep texting him to get lost and he takes no notice. He knows where I live because I brought him back here last night. I said, sort of implied, that you were my aunt and now he thinks … I don't know what he thinks.'

Bea set her teeth. ‘Swap phones with me. I'll put a flea in his ear, if that's what you want.'

The girl was not far from angry tears. ‘Would you? You've been pretty good to me, all things considered, and I know I'm hopeless in the office and you've no need of me there, and I'm not afraid of him, I'm not. But what will happen if he comes to the door here?'

So she
was
afraid of him? Bea was brisk. ‘He won't, not after the earful I intend to give him. If he does, we call the police, right? Because that's stalking.'

‘Oh. Yes, I suppose it is.' Maggie passed her phone over to Bea. ‘I suppose when you're old, nothing upsets you, does it?'

Doesn't it? thought Bea, suppressing a desire to hit the child. The phone felt slightly sticky. Yuk. She put on her glasses. ‘Now, how does this phone work? Oh yes. I see. Maggie, will you go and put the kettle on, there's a dear? Herbal tea for me, not coffee.'

Maggie disappeared and Bea walked around the garden, composing a text. Something off-putting was required. Something to make the man feel small but not to humiliate. Voicemail might be easier for what she had to say. The phone vibrated in her hand, and another text message appeared.

Bea grimaced. The young had no sense of decency, had they? So he'd enjoyed Maggie's body and wanted a repeat? Had he no idea what he'd done to Maggie, was doing to her?

She returned his last voicemail call. An eager voice said, ‘At last! What have you been—?'

Bea broke in. ‘Young man, I don't know you and you don't know me, but this is Maggie's aunt speaking. She borrowed my phone last night, so I've been getting all her messages this afternoon, which is rather annoying. I understand you'd like to see her again, but she tells me it was just a one-night stand as far as she was concerned, and she's not interested.' Bea killed the call over his protest.

There. Done. The phone upstairs was ringing now. Someone was leaving a message. Bother. She thought it might rain and the French windows were still open, so she climbed the stairs and pulled the windows shut. The caller hadn't left a message, which was fortune as Bea didn't feel up to civil chit-chat.

She went down the stairs to her office. Oliver was clattering away at his computer in the middle office, so she called out to him to join her.

‘Oliver, we have to get ourselves organized. We need to get statements from all the people who've been conned out of money. Let's make a list and divide it up. The first two venues, for a start.'

‘I've tried ringing the managers but they'll neither confirm nor deny that there's a problem.'

‘If they'd been paid what was due, they'd not be cagey but quite open about it. Probably boast that they'd never been caught. Give me their names and addresses and I'll go to see them.'

Oliver extracted a couple of sheets of paper and handed them over. Bea put on her glasses and saw that she'd have to use the car to reach them. ‘Fine. Now when Coral gets back to us, ask her to write us an invoice for each of the functions she catered for. A detailed one. Tell her we're not taking it to the police, but we do need to know exactly what she's owed. The same for the squadron lea— for Leo. Got that?'

He nodded. He was proving to be an excellent PA. Bea reminded herself that he was still very young and shouldn't, perhaps, be pushed too hard. All work and no play, etcetera. She said, ‘Have you heard from your father yet?'

He shook his head, eyes on his notebook.

‘Well, if you don't hear by tomorrow we'll write him a letter suggesting a meeting. Perhaps you'd like to draft one while I'm out? Now, I'd like to get a line on the singers who appeared at the Garden Room and the Country Club. In the old days we used to recommend entertainers from a theatrical agency called Stars Unlimited, in Soho. Can you trace any recent recommendations from them? In other words, did Max give their name to Mrs Briggs, and if so, did they supply the singers? And if so—'

‘Did they get paid? I'm on to it.'

‘You're something of a star yourself, Oliver. I hope I'm not giving you too much to do.'

‘I like it. It's like a hunt, better than a computer game.'

‘It's not a game.'

‘No, I know that.' He glanced at the door. ‘What happened to Maggie's not a game, either. He ought to be shot.'

‘No fisticuffs, please.'

He tried on a grin. ‘I wouldn't be much good at that, anyway, would I?'

‘No karate skills?'

‘I wish. Maybe I'll take lessons, sometime.'

Bea nodded, smiling, dismissing him. Thinking that if he didn't grow another couple of inches, it might indeed be a good idea for him to take some form of self-defence classes.

She gathered up her papers and looked down to see if she was wearing sufficiently business-like attire. She wasn't. She hurried up the stairs, checking the time by her watch, slid into a silky suit in palest grey-green, checked that her make-up looked reasonably intact, found her car keys and some of the agency business cards, and set off for, what was first on the list? The Garden Room.

The Garden Room was a huge conservatory added on to the side of a busy arterial road pub. There were hanging baskets around the perimeter, a fair number of vehicles in the car park, and a general air of prosperity. Bea noted that there was no litter wafting about the place, and passed through double doors into the bar. There were a number of customers inside, and through a glass door at the back she could see more sitting at tables on the patio outside. A board advertised the menu. There was also a sign pointing to the Garden Room, asking that customers be appropriately dressed.

At Bea's request, the barman produced the manager, a solid-looking individual with enormous hands and watchful brown eyes. A toughie, who'd know how to care for his beer. ‘Tommy Banks,' he said, introducing himself. ‘How may I help you?'

Bea said, ‘I may be interested in hiring your function room for a party. Would it be possible for me to see it?'

He led her through double doors into the room beyond. There were pretty blinds at the window, bamboo furniture, glass-topped tables. Everything was sparklingly clean. There was a small stage at one end and a second bar, currently shut off behind a grille. It would be a pleasant place for functions, seating about 150 people.

That day about half the room had been screened off, and Bea could see the tables had been laid out for a birthday party with balloons and favours beside each plate. The sun was setting but it had been a warm day and shades had been drawn over the windows in the roof. Bea approved the place. She also took a liking to the manager, who showed her to a seat and asked if she'd care for a drink.

She declined, not wanting to mislead him about the reason for her visit. ‘I may well be interested in a venue for a party later on, but just at present,' and here she laid a business card on the table, ‘I'm looking for information about a charity function run by a Mrs Somers-Briggs.'

The manager's vast hands clasped together, though his facial expression never altered. ‘I told your man on the phone, No Comment.'

Bea persisted. ‘We know that she ran a function here some weeks ago. The caterer got paid with bum cheques, but foolishly believed their assurances that it was all a mistake, and went on to cater for an even bigger event at the Priory Country Club. She got a bum cheque for that, too.'

Did his eyelids flicker? Bea went on. ‘You may remember her, Coral Catering?'

‘She did a good job. I said I'd recommend her for other functions in future.'

‘She hasn't got a future,' said Bea, in a flat voice, ‘unless we can help her to get her money back. She's relying on us to do something because the introduction came through our agency …' She explained how she'd come to take an interest in the matter, and what she'd learned so far. ‘We are currently trying to compile a list of what everyone is owed. I wondered if you'd like to come in on this.'

His eyelids flickered again. ‘The management says, “No comment.”'

Definitely, they'd been stung. Bea considered her options. ‘Do I take it that the management doesn't wish to go to the police in the hypothetical case that they have made a loss on this event?'

‘The brewery runs a tight ship. The manager, in such a case, might well expect to lose his job.'

‘Ah. Still talking hypothetically, would the manager be prepared to give me a quote for a similar function? This would give me some idea of how much you are – correction – you
might
have been out of pocket.'

He nodded. ‘I could give you a quote for the function you are thinking of staging, yes.'

‘Also, hypothetically, could you confirm how you might first have heard of a team similar to the one we're talking about?'

‘She – Mrs Briggs – had been having a drink in the garden, noticed we did functions, asked if she could book one herself, for victims of the tsunami. Talked a lot about how much good it would do the pub if we went into raising money for such causes in a big way. We've always held the odd evening for charity, quizzes and the like, but yes, this would be a step up-market. She gave me a brochure for a similar event that she'd run out of town and it looked OK. Lots of well-known names on it. The cheque for the deposit arrived late but it cleared OK, no cause for worry. The cheque for the rest bounced and, as you say, the charity doesn't exist.'

‘A familiar story. What did the team look like?'

Mr Banks gazed over her head. ‘A rich bitch with a salon haircut and a smart-ass accent. A trendy youngish man acting as DJ; he was first-class. Then there was the photographer, her son or gigolo, can't be sure which; film-star looks, had the girls swooning for him. And a sidekick, MC and auctioneer, who was a barrel of laughs, and a talented barroom piano player, probably from the East End.'

‘That's them,' said Bea. ‘So there are two young men involved? I thought there was only one. You haven't a photograph, have you?'

He went back into the main bar, and returned with a photograph of himself and a buxom woman – his wife? – on either side of a slender Asian girl with large dark eyes, wearing the headscarf and trouser suit of Pakistan.

‘I suppose the girl was in on it. She gave a spiel about how she'd lost her whole family in the disaster, a real tear-jerker. The organizer suggested we get photographed with her rather than with them. We thought they were being modest. We paid fifteen quid for the photo and that's all we've got to show for it.'

‘What was the girl's name? Do you know where we can find her?'

He shook his head. ‘It wasn't a name I'd remember, went in one ear and out the other.'

Maybe they could track her down through the photographer. Bea turned the print over to look for the photographer's label, but there wasn't one.

‘I thought of looking him up, too,' said Mr Banks. ‘But it was one of those Polaroid cameras that spits out the print straight away. I thought it was a bit amateur because professional photographers have digital cameras nowadays, but he said it was easier and quicker with a Polaroid. He took the photos, showed us the print, we paid him cash there and then. He said it was a good way of dealing with it, saving all that bother of ordering prints later on, and I agreed with him. Of course it also saved him from giving us a name and address.'

‘They think of everything, don't they?' said Bea.

‘I'm not sure how much the girl was involved, because she didn't go off with the others at the end, but had a hire car come for her. The driver came into the bar and said he'd come for the Asian girl, I went and got her from the function room, and she went off with him and that was that. I don't remember which cab firm it was. An Asian driver, that's all I can tell you. But then, they're mostly Asians who drive for the cab companies around here.'

‘Clever,' said Bea. ‘So, no photo of them, no evidence. What about the singer?'

‘The real thing didn't show up. A lookalike came, stand in, what have you. Stupid name, Mad Man? No, not that, but something like that. A rapper. Not bad, if you like that sort of thing. He went down all right with the crowd.'