False Charity (23 page)

Oliver shrugged. ‘I'll make my own way in life, thank you.'

Bea said, ‘That's all very noble, Oliver, but what about going to university? How many places have you been offered? I'm sure your father will agree that you should go.'

The headmaster was breathing hard, nostrils flaring, head bent forward. ‘He's eighteen now. He doesn't get a penny more out of me.'

‘Well,' said Bea, ‘at least you can let him have his birth certificate, passport and so on.'

The man's head snapped round. He stared at Bea, who stared back. She thought, I've asked for Oliver's birth certificate and that's made him stop and think. Does that birth certificate show that Oliver was adopted? And how does that affect Oliver's future? She held Mr Ingram's eye till he looked away, smoothing back his fair hair. Bea risked a glance at Oliver, who looked puzzled.

Oliver didn't know? Best not to say anything.

Mr Ingram said, ‘Look at the time. I must go. Meetings. I'll put those papers in the post to you, Oliver. I'll see myself out.'

He blundered out of the room. The front door crashed to behind him. Maggie slunk into the room. She'd obviously been listening at the door and now she was worried about how Oliver was taking things.

He was showing signs of strain, but tried to grin at her. ‘Well, that's torn it. No going back. Not that I want to, of course.'

Maggie threw back her head. ‘We'll be all right. We'll go down the Job Centre, find somewhere to live, maybe move out of London, even.'

‘Oliver may have fooled you, Maggie,' said Bea, ‘but he didn't fool me. Oliver, you borrowed your father's money to trade stuff on ebay, fine. I'm sure you made a good profit, which I'm equally sure you didn't pass on to him? Am I right?'

Did he blush? ‘I wouldn't ever try to fool you, Mrs Abbot. Maggie, there's enough to give you and me four weeks' leeway when we leave here.'

‘May I remind you,' said Bea, ‘that you've both agreed to stay on here for another week, to help me clear up the mess that the agency is in? Now I've got some thinking of my own to do. Oliver, will you put all the information we've got so far on my desk downstairs? I want to go over everything, see what we're missing, try to sort out a plan of campaign before I go to sleep.'

Oliver nodded. ‘Oh, by the way. Coral rang. June went into labour properly this morning. She's had a baby boy, they're both fine but the hospital's keeping them in overnight. Coral also said to tell you she's not been able to get herself a job for tomorrow night. Does that make sense?'

‘I'm afraid it does. Without her or the squadron leader on board, we can't be a hundred per cent sure of identification. I'll have to think of something, though I don't know what. Anything else?'

‘The usual.' He rubbed his forehead, trying to think straight. ‘That Mrs Weston or Mrs Westin, getting really annoyed that you haven't rung her back. The cleaner came round again. I didn't let her in. Mr Max wanting to know if you need a lift tomorrow.'

Bea was also tired, but tried to sort out her priorities. ‘Maggie, I've an appointment at my hairdresser's tomorrow which you must take.' It cost Bea a pang to forgo her appointment, but Maggie's need was greater. ‘Which reminds me; Oliver, do you have a suit or other garb suitable for this event?'

Oliver, deflated, said he didn't think so. Maggie fidgeted. Clearly she didn't have anything suitable, either.

‘All right, both of you,' said Bea. ‘Dress hire, first thing tomorrow. DJ for you, Oliver. Maggie, I want you to wear something subdued and slinky, black or some other dark colour, ankle length, no pattern, no glitter. Right? I'll sub you. Now let me get at that paperwork before I decide I'm too tired to do anything more than crawl into bed.'

Because there was a problem she had to solve, wasn't there? She believed the police often had the same dilemma. Do you allow a crime to take place, so that you can catch the villains in the act – which may mean the victims get thumped financially or physically before you can step in to arrest the baddies – or do you warn the victim beforehand, and risk tipping off the villains? Which was best? Prevention or cure?

And how on earth was she going to extract the money from the con men? What weapons precisely did she have in her armoury?

What about Tommy Banks' huge fists? Could she risk bringing him in? He'd be a force to be reckoned with, but did she approve of fisticuffs? Well, no. Not usually. But in this case …?

If only they'd been able to trace the villains back to their lair!

When Oliver and Maggie had disappeared, Bea went to close and lock the French windows. With her hands on the catch, she thought, Hamilton, I need you. Advice, please. She went down the stairs into the garden and sat where her husband had been accustomed to sit and pray.

She rested her hands, palm upwards, on her knees and bent her head. She didn't know what words to use. Perhaps none were necessary. Perhaps all she had to do was lift up her heart to her Lord, and ask Him to comfort her and everyone she cared for in time of trouble. She asked for guidance, and for strength to carry out whatever course of action He wished her to take.

Some words that Hamilton had often used came into her mind. Part of a morning prayer. Well, this wasn't the morning, but it had the right sentiments. Something about being ready to go out into the world to right wrong, to overcome evil, to suffer wounds and endure pain if need be …

The rest of it had vanished from her mind. She repeated the few words she remembered over and over to herself. To right wrong. To overcome evil. To put up with Maggie's dreadful hee-haw of a laugh. Oh dear, that made her giggle. Would God be bothered to listen to such a trivial prayer as that?

She sat there a long time. A blackbird came and sang in the tree above her. A light breeze ruffled the leaves. Some nicotiana nearby scented the air.

Perhaps she'd sleep better tonight.

Friday, late evening

Noel was planning what he'd do to Maggie. Where should he take her, for a start? Back to her place? No, her aunt lived there, and she might interrupt just when things were getting interesting. He didn't want interruptions.

Should he bring her back to the flat? Mm. No. Mummy might object if she had to do too much clearing up afterwards, and he was planning to make a mess, wasn't he?

He snapped his fingers. He'd book a room at the hotel, put it on the plastic. Why not make it the honeymoon suite? Yes, why not? He'd be off before the staff were up in the morning, and they could clear up the mess afterwards. He'd be long gone.

He'd lure Maggie upstairs with a message from her aunt, perhaps give her a drink with something in it. He'd topped up his stock of useful pills while clubbing this last week.

Of course, he might have to choke off that silly little slapper of a receptionist. However many times had she tried to phone him today?

He must remember to put a pair of thin latex gloves into his dinner jacket. No need to leave fingerprints. And Maggie wasn't going to talk afterwards, was she?

Saturday, morning

B
reakfast was tiresome. Maggie was over bright and noisy. Oliver wasn't looking at Maggie, either because – like Bea – he liked peace and quiet in the mornings, or because he couldn't stand the sight of her with her hair chopped off. Bea decided she felt too frail to cope with either of them, sipped her coffee, ate some fruit and announced in a cheerful tone that she expected them to be ready to leave for the dress agency in fifteen minutes.

She took them there, told the manageress exactly what she wanted for both of them, and drove on to Green's Hotel. She wasn't convinced that she was doing the right thing, but didn't think she could live with herself if the hotel made a big loss on the evening. She had another crisis of confidence when she spotted a receptionist slotting a card announcing the charity function into the board in the foyer.

She went down the corridor and into the function room, which was being prepared for the event by a team of four or five people, all of whom would expect to be paid for their time and trouble.

‘May I help you?'

It was the manageress who'd shown Bea round on Thursday. She was wearing the same sharp black suit, with a different blouse. She was just as well turned out as before, but there was a suggestion of strain about the eyes and mouth. Was the staff shortage really so bad?

Bea said, ‘Mrs Abbot. You remember I called the other day? I wonder if we might have a quiet word?'

The manageress hesitated. ‘Perhaps we could fix up a time for you to call early next week? I'm afraid I'm rather tied up—'

‘It's about the function tonight, and it's important.' Apparently she'd put sufficient urgency in her voice to convince. The manageress led Bea to a quiet office off the foyer. ‘Some coffee?'

‘That would be good,' said Bea, forgetting that she was supposed to be cutting down on caffeine. On the other hand, she really needed it this morning.

The manageress' hand hovered over the internal phone, but then she withdrew it, and vanished to some inner region to fetch the coffee herself.

So, thought Bea, they're so busy the manageress can't get someone else to run an errand to the kitchens for her? What sort of hotel is it that gets so short-staffed in the holiday season?

‘Sorry about that.' Coffee appeared. Nicely laid out on a tray. With shortbread. The kitchens appeared to be working normally, then. ‘Milk, sugar?'

‘Black. I think we're both going to need it.'

A professional smile. ‘Oh, I hope it won't come to that.' She poured black coffee out for herself as well.

‘Don't count on it.' Bea sipped her coffee. Black and strong. She shuddered, but the caffeine did help. She laid one of the agency cards on the desk. ‘When I called on you the other day, it was on something of a fishing expedition.'

Another bright smile. ‘I see you are, what … a detective agency? You weren't serious about making a booking, then?'

‘No, we're not a detective agency and yes, I might well be looking for a room in which to hold a party in a while. What I really came about, what I really wanted, was some background information on the people whose charity function you are having here tonight.'

The smile disappeared. ‘What might your interest be?'

‘Unpaid bills from previous functions.'

The manageress' mouth tightened. ‘I really don't think that—'

‘Was their cheque for the deposit honoured?'

The woman put her coffee down on the tray, untouched. ‘Yes, of course.' But her tone was guarded and her eyes flickered to a drawer in her desk.

‘At the second attempt, perhaps?' said Bea. ‘Were they full of apologies that their first cheque bounced, and promised to give you another? Has this second cheque been presented yet?'

‘It only came in the other day. I was going to bank it on Monday. True, there had been a problem with their first cheque, but that was all explained away. Do you have any reason to believe this one will bounce, too?'

‘It's happened before. Have you by any chance checked their references? No? Well, perhaps I'd better explain why I'm here. I've just returned from some months abroad, during which time the Abbot Agency has been run down …'

When Bea reached the point at which Coral had been gulled into taking on a second event, the manageress reached for her cup and swallowed her coffee in two gulps. When she'd finished, Bea sat back and waited. Now all would depend on the manageress' reaction. She might choose to reject Bea's story. Or she might decide to cancel the function, cutting her losses.

Or she might want revenge.

‘What a story!' The manageress tried on a smile, which didn't adhere to her face. ‘This is the week for tall stories. First the police come about a missing member of staff and then, well, where's your proof? You come in off the street with a fanciful tale about wanting a booking which you have no intention of making and then—'

‘Check the references,' said Bea. ‘You'll find they're false.'

‘I'm sure they're perfectly all right. Mrs Briggs is most … I can't believe this is happening.'

‘Believe it. How much are you set to lose tonight, if they flit without payment?'

‘They wouldn't do that. Why, we'd slap a solicitor's letter on them, sue them.'

‘Check their address and telephone number. Both are false. The address given is that of a small corner shop. The telephone number on the fliers is out of commission.'

The manageress delved into her desk for a file, and drew out a letterhead for the false charity. She reached for the phone, and dialled a number. Listened to the voice at the other end of the phone, replaced the handset.

‘The Bolivian Embassy?' asked Bea.

The woman attacked the phone again. Bea excused herself to visit the toilets. She didn't see any reason to sit and watch the manageress' humiliation.

Returning, Bea noticed that the receptionist behind the desk in the foyer was fiddling with her hair and blowing her nose, shuffling papers aimlessly. Distrait. Staff shortage? What was it the manageress had said about the police and a missing member of staff? The commissionaire was an elderly man with a hostile expression, busy with a couple of large American tourists. Well, it was no business of hers.

When she got back to the manageress' office, she found the woman retouching her make-up. The coffee pot was drained dry. ‘Sorry about that.' She held out her hand to Bea. ‘The name's McNeice.'

‘Bea Abbot. Would you care to see the bills from the other places?'

A nod. ‘I've alerted the managing director and he'll be in shortly, when we'll have to decide what to do. Frankly, he's a bit of a ditherer and it'll be me who makes the decision.'